


School of the Lark, School of the Wolf

by round_robin



Series: Time Stops For No Witcher [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Academia, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Angst, Bottom Lambert (The Witcher), Canonical Character Death, Corvo Bianco (The Witcher), Double Penetration, Exhibitionism, Explicit Sexual Content, Flashbacks, Gentle Dom Jaskier | Dandelion, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Modern Continent (The Witcher), Modern Era, Multi, Oral Sex, Oxenfurt, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Polyamory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reincarnation, Rimming, Sub Lambert (The Witcher), The Witcher Lore, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, Triple Penetration, Voyeurism, Witchersexual Jaskier | Dandelion, Wolf Pack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:33:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 62,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25561384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/round_robin/pseuds/round_robin
Summary: Like Jaskier, Oxenfurt Academy was both old and new at the same time. Everywhere he went, he saw memories. Jaskier didn't know if this was good or bad. He was supposed to live his own life, start his own education, but the old memories reasserted themselves, a reminder that he was part of this place once, as a student and a teacher. He remembered both endeavors being positive experiences, yet still a little fraught at times.But now, he was also part of Corvo Bianco. Back home in their Southern keep, the one in the North long gone, three beautiful wolves waited for Jaskier, and oh did he want to see them. They all agreed: he needed to spread his wings. He—Jaskier de Stael, not Jaskier the Bard—dreamed of Oxenfurt since he was a little boy and nothing should stop him from attending, especially since they had more than the means to get him there.
Relationships: Aiden/Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert, Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Lambert, Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel/Lambert (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Lambert, Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert
Series: Time Stops For No Witcher [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1811986
Comments: 774
Kudos: 500
Collections: The Modern Witcher AU Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to part two of the quite epic story I'm telling about the modern Continent.
> 
> Some notes: I am making up a lot about Oxenfurt's term schedule. I could find solid info on it, so I just made it up. Spring term is late January to the end of May. Summer/Autumn term is late July to November. I will probably announce this again later, as I spent a lot of time considering the time line and almost drove myself crazy with it. Jaskier is starting at the beginning of Spring term, so it's late January/early February here. I'm also pulling canon from all three sources--books, netflix, video game--if a date seems incorrect, I probably took it from a different canon or just made it up, who knows, certainty not me.
> 
> Thank you to my lovely beta, what_about_the_fish, who helped me make sure I had said timeline in the correct order. I've never had a beta before and it was a lovely experience, so thank you so much for your help <3
> 
> I really love this story but it's put me through the ringer. I hope everyone enjoys.

Like Jaskier, Oxenfurt Academy was both old and new at the same time. Everywhere he went, he saw memories: a familiar tapestry beautifully restored to its full glory; a cracked courtyard wall he was standing near when one of the alchemy students dropped a flask and made the crack in the first place; the library that still smelled the same despite all the new furniture and modern computer equipment. Jaskier didn't know if this was good or bad. He was supposed to live his own life, start his own education, but the old memories reasserted themselves, a reminder that he was part of this place once, as a student and a teacher. He remembered both endeavors being positive experiences, yet still a little fraught at times.

But now, he was also part of Corvo Bianco. Back home in their Southern keep, the one in the North long gone, three beautiful wolves waited for Jaskier, and oh did he want to see them. They all agreed: he needed to spread his wings. He—Jaskier de Stael, not Jaskier the Bard—dreamed of Oxenfurt since he was a little boy and nothing should stop him from attending, especially since they had more than the means to get him there.

So he went. And he tried not to think about how, without leaving him fretting at home, they were free to return to The Path like they all secretly wanted. He didn't know how to feel about that.

Settling in at the Academy was tricky, not impossible. Dining hall food was no replacement for Eskel's amazing cooking, and many renovations over the centuries meant Jaskier couldn't trust his newly revealed memories. More than once, he smacked into a wall that wasn't there seven hundred years ago, and he was late for his first mathematics class because they removed a whole fucking hallway.

“Sorry,” he apologized to the professor after class. “I got turned around.”

The woman nodded. “No trouble, but don't let it happen again. Just because you're in the seven liberal arts doesn't mean you can disregard the art of mathematics.”

“Oh, don't worry, I have full appreciation for it. Why, without mathematics, I would never have—” Jaskier bit down on his next words. He wanted to tell her about the time he used the angle of the sun to find their way out of an endless forest. Geralt was injured enough to need a few days' rest and with far too many beasts around, they needed to move to higher ground before sunset. Yet, the words “in my past life...” seemed far too eccentric, even for Oxenfurt. “Uh, what I mean is, I've read the tales of the old traveling bards using mathematics far more than one might think. I understand how important it is.”

The professor shook her head. “The traveling bards. I see you're another one of those. You should look up Essi Daven, you two will have a lot to talk about.”

The name sent a pang of sadness through him. Yes, Essi, the dear girl he thought of as a sister, the one who he carried to her grave after smallpox took her at far too young an age. Lost in thought, Jaskier thanked the professor and left, heading to his next class.

Before he had a chance to find Essi Daven—a girl with the same name as his Essi, a relation perhaps? or did someone just find the name in an old book and liked the sound of it—she found him. Blonde hair as wavy and bouncy as the first Essi, she ran at him from across the lawn. Jaskier was spread out to look at some of his Elder Speech books, seeing how much he remembered of the tongue.

“Jaskier!” A high pitched shout rang across the courtyard, followed by a slip of a woman, blonde hair everywhere. She came to a stop in front of him, still bouncing. “I'm sorry to intrude, are you Jaskier?”

“Uh, yes, I am. You're Essi?” Of course she was Essi, blue eyes, blonde hair trying to fall in her face, petite but with enough fire in her to bowl over anyone she saw. Her nose was a little different, her chin a bit more pointy, but the resemblance was there.

“Yes! I'm another legacy. I thought I was the only one this year, the Dean said they don't get very many now-a-days. Then I heard one of Jaskier's descendants was here as well!”

Gathering up his books, Jaskier got to his feet to talk to her properly. Yes, there was a resemblance, but no where near as exact as his. Probably not another reincarnation then. He believed Geralt that human reincarnation was basically non-existent, but if he discovered another long lost bard his first week at Oxenfurt, he might have to tell Geralt to update his information.

“Another legacy? I didn't know Essi ever taught at Oxenfurt.” Jaskier flipped through his memories, nothing stuck out. “I've, uh, read her work. She was a friend of the first Jaskier—my ancestor. I'm named for him.” Not technically a lie.

This Essi shrugged. “She taught a few seminars. Not technically a professor, but they like family names coming back and allowed me in under legacy rules. I'm a descendant of her sister, Ellen Daven. She was so broken up when she heard of her sister's death, she named her next daughter Essi. Name's been passed down in the family ever since.”

She fell into step next to Jaskier and they went to grab lunch. Essi's mother was also interested in genealogy, “There seems to be an age they hit,” she said with a laugh. “Since the name's been passed down, we obviously know a lot about the first Essi.” While she knew stories of Essi and her work, Jaskier knew the woman herself. It was a little painful speaking of a friend he carried to the grave. But it was also nice, a little piece of his past that didn't revolve around Witchers.

They compared class schedules and found a few crossovers. She promised to save Jaskier a seat in their 1100-1300 Poetry class. They were both a little smug, as they had inside knowledge of those great poets, Essi from her mother's research, Jaskier from his own brain. While the Jaskier of old made friends easily, he was having a bit of trouble. It was hard to discuss a home life with new friends when home life included the last three Witchers. Jaskier wasn't sure if he wanted to divulge that particular secret just yet. Thankfully, Essi was more than happy to talk about old poetry and famous ancestors, much better territory.

When he called Corvo Bianco that night, and told them of his new friend, they all gushed with excitement. It was a bit excessive, actually, but Jaskier was glad to hear their voices. “Send me more pictures,” he instructed Lambert.

“Same to you,” he countered.

Jaskier slowly started getting used to his new life, the second in such a small frame of time, but this one was more conventional at least—going off to school was a rite of passage after all. Geralt, Lambert and Eskel called him every other day or so, sending pictures at least once a week. One particular image of all three of them crushed together in bed, the phone held over Lambert's head, made Jaskier very hot and bothered. Lambert's head was tilted back, baring his neck enough to see Geralt bent over him, teeth denting his skin. Behind him, Eskel's hand slid around Lambert's bare ass framed by the black straps of a jock Jaskier bought him a few weeks before he headed to school.

 _They like these almost as much as you do..._ the message said.

“Oh, he's in trouble...” Jaskier mumbled to himself, pushing his shorts down and cupping his rapidly rising cock. He checked the time. Only ten, they wouldn't be in bed yet, and the photo was definitely from the night before, no risk of interrupting anything right now. Jaskier closed the picture and switched over to a video call. They'd chatted a few times like this, mostly on Lambert's phone, as Geralt and Eskel were useless with technology that didn't contain an engine.

Lambert answered, his face skinny and boxy for a moment before he turned the phone. “Hey. Everything alright?” They did that every time, no matter when he called them—morning, evening, middle of the night—like they expected him to find a monster at Oxenfurt and summon them to defeat it. That only happened _once_ in the old days.

“Mmm, fine. Can I talk to Geralt?” Jaskier's face betrayed no emotion, but Lambert knew that tone of voice. He handed the phone off to Geralt, a small smirk on his lips. Geralt's face swam into view and Jaskier didn't bother with a greeting. “That picture you just sent me was very nice. Yet I wonder, was it Lambert's idea to wear that jock? Or yours?”

“Lambert's,” Geralt said. He smirked as well. He and Eskel had watched Jaskier take care of Lambert a few more times before he headed off to school, but on two occasions, they were more than involved. Jaskier ordering them around like extensions of himself, a thrill traveled through Geralt when he heard _that_ voice. Ready to be used and directed, he licked his lips, waiting for their instructions.

“Hmm, I see. Get Eskel.” The phone wiggled as Geralt made his way through the house. Jaskier heard footsteps and knew Lambert was right behind him. Whatever room they ended up in was where Lambert was going to feel Jaskier's disappointment.

Eskel was in the study, of course. Geralt leaned against the desk and pulled Eskel to sit next to him, both too large to fit in the frame together. “What is it?” Eskel asked.

“It's come to my attention that Lambert wore one of my gifts with you and Geralt. He did not ask.” Jaskier arched an eyebrow and Eskel caught on.

They were both smirking now. “What do you want us to do to correct this?” Geralt asked.

“Strip him down, have him suck you both off while I watch. Let me see him.” The phone moved again and Jaskier saw Lambert's eyes dark with lust, only a thin ring of gold visible. “Did you hear that?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“Take everything off. Everything.”

Eskel took the phone and held it still for Jaskier to watch Lambert strip. After placing a pillow from the couch on the floor for Lambert to kneel on, Geralt stepped up, cock already out. One eye on Jaskier's face on the small screen, the other eye on the fine cock in front of him, Lambert got to work. Straight away, he took Geralt deep, pulling a growling moan from the White Wolf.

“Don't show off,” Jaskier ordered. “Geralt can place a hand on your head if you're not doing what he likes. You're pleasing them, not me.” He kept the phone on his chest, his free hand working his cock. So Lambert might be pleasing him as well, didn't mean he had to show him that.

Rubbing his cheek against Geralt's cock in apology for going too fast, Lambert tried again. Sucking at the head, he circled his tongue around the crown like a sweet, slowly taking Geralt deeper. “Uh, fuck,” Geralt moaned. He threaded his fingers through Lambert's hair, more to provide a steady hand, than to direct him. That was Jaskier's job.

But Lambert didn't need any more instruction, he knew what Jaskier wanted to see: his beautiful mouth around Geralt, then Eskel, his throat swallowing their come. It didn't take long for Geralt to reach his peak. Blunt nails scratched at Lambert's scalp as he emptied down his throat, a string of saliva connecting him to Lambert's bottom lip as he withdrew.

“Fuck,” Geralt sighed. The phone wiggled and Eskel appeared.

Lambert's mouth fell open and another cock slipped inside, Jaskier tightened his own grip, speeding his strokes a little. If he timed it right, he could come when Eskel did. The idea of Lambert's mouth around him right now—kneeling for him in this slightly shabby dorm room, far too plain to contain any of them, forces of nature as they were—made him weak, made him miss them more.

Eskel groaned and Jaskier sped up. His eyes closed and he spilled just as Eskel cried out, pulsing down Lambert's throat. Oh, how Jaskier missed that mouth. Wiping his hand off on his shorts, he gathered himself quickly. “Lambert... I want to talk to Lambert. Alone.”

With a few parting kisses, they left Lambert alone in the study, still on his knees. “Such a good boy,” Jaskier purred. “You can get up. Sit on the couch, get comfortable.” He waited for Lambert to be seated. “Did you like that?”

He closed his eyes and a shiver ran through his shoulders. “I did. I don't think I'd like them without you... directing.” They both smirked. “I'm sorry I wore one of your presents with them. I miss you, it made me feel like you were there with us.”

“I get it,” Jaskier said. “All the same, I don't think you'll be wearing any underwear until the next time I'm home. Alright?” Lambert nodded. “Good.” He let a little of the firmness bleed out of his voice, he was too tired to keep it up, too tired of missing them. “Call you tomorrow?”

“Looking forward to it.” Lambert called Geralt and Eskel back to say goodnight. Jaskier gave them instructions for Lambert: take him to bed, make him feel safe and comfortable, let him float between them for a while. It wasn't a full scene, no where near what he wanted to do with them all, but it was something... it was enough. For now.

Jaskier took one last look at his phone before sighing to himself. He'd been far away before, but at least now he could still see them. The modern world definitely had that going for it.

* * *

He slowly picked up the rhythm of Oxenfurt again, not just the classes, but the town itself. Though it had seven hundred years to recover, Jaskier had to contain his excitement when he saw obvious changes after Radovid's disgusting occupation. “Oh, thank fuck, they finally got rid of that—” Almost twice a day, he had to bite down his words. Couldn't tell anyone how happy he was they tore down the witch hunter garrison and its ugly bronze reliefs of witches on the pyre when those had been gone for at least five hundred years... another war, the metal was needed for weapons, seemed to be the way of the world.

Despite all it had been through—revolution, uprising, war, disaster—Oxenfurt was still a riot of color spattered in mud and shit, the divine meeting the wicked, just as it always had been. Jaskier enjoyed hitting the town with Essi, taking her to all the old taverns (mostly refurbished and themed, though some had been replaced by chain stores) they played in and telling her stories... that he'd read. Oh, how he wanted to gush and tell her how she was such a dear friend, like a sister, he always looked after her when they were together and he wanted that again. But he couldn't. He had to satisfy himself with a new budding friendship rather than an old, deep one. It was enough.

The Academy side of things was... not terrible. Jaskier loved his classes, he really did, but sometimes they got things wrong. And he couldn't fucking say anything about it. He tried a few times, but when the professors asked him to back up his claims (sometimes calmly, sometimes not) he froze. He'd been at the Academy a little over a month and while he was a bright student, coming out with the answer of “Well, I'm the reincarnation of the bard, so yeah, I fucking know what I said,” might push him towards being seen as an _unstable_ student instead.

The real kicker was: he had primary sources at home, he had proof on paper, not just in his head. But with the way Eskel felt about Oxenfurt guarding their collection and keeping him away from it... Jaskier didn't want to advertise what wasn't his to promise. So he swallowed down his pride and stopped bringing it up. Most of the time.

Essi seemed to understand his frustrations. “I get it,” she whispered after he backed down from one such correction. _Toss a Coin_ was written in 1240, not 1243. The book was wrong, Recollections of Some No Name Bard Who Lived Two Hundred Years Too Late. “My mum has old family diaries and notebooks too. I have a few original compositions, but can't just bring them to class to prove my point.” She pat him on the arm. “We know the truth, and that's all that matters.”

“I suppose so.” All his life (both of them) Jaskier didn't really care about the opinion of the masses. He wanted people to like his songs and his work, sure, but he was as at home singing to an empty field of flowers as he was to a packed tavern. No, the only opinions that mattered were three wolves with golden eyes.

Jaskier managed to hold his tongue after that. It was almost the one week break between Imbolc and Birke, and while he wasn't going home until Belleteyne, Eskel said he might come out to visit. He could make it through another week...

Until he couldn't. That damn 1100 to 1300 Poetry class, he thought it would be easy—he was there for a chunk of it—but that class turned out to be his downfall. They were in the middle of a unit on Valdo Marx of all fucking people. While Jaskier made his peace with Valdo many, many years ago, he was still a bit of a hack. The idea that his work was studied along side Jaskier's own was laughable. They weren't contemporaries... well, they were, but he didn't have to like it.

Though he liked the professor, Jaskier tended to tune out during his recitations of Valdo's work, until a familiar line caught his ear. “'Though my heart be heavy whenever she draws near, I know his heart is warm and devoid of fear; my dearest love does belong to another, and this I must accept, for he turns a blind eye to my love for his brother.' Now, given the rest of Valdo's work—”

“That's not Valdo's,” Jaskier said before he could stop himself.

Professor de Vir's eyes scanned the room, landing on him. Her shoulders slumped. “Jaskier, what was that?”

All eyes turned to him, heat flooded his face. He was already in too deep... “Valdo didn't write that poem. Valdo didn't like men, why would he write about loving a man? Two men, even.” Yes, literary analysis, he wasn't betraying the fact that he knew what that poem was about because he fucking wrote it.

The professor nodded slowly. “Yes, that's exactly what I was about to ask. Given the rest of Valdo's works, where he's very focused on the female form and his various female lovers, what can we make of this man?” She scanned the page and read a few more lines. “White hair suggests someone older, maybe he became infatuated with an older man during his school years and only admitted the love to himself once it was too late.”

 _White hair about an older man, are you fucking kidding me?_ “Valdo didn't write this piece,” Jaskier said again. The words bubbled up inside him, and he was helpless to hold back. He stole lines from Valdo, and Valdo stole off him, it was the way of things back then. Jaskier hadn't had any qualms about other misattributed works, but not a poem about Geralt. That was _his_ , Valdo fucking Marx's ghost could haunt him for all he cared.

The pinch of irritation on the professor's face turned to anger. “What source do you have? Who else might this be attributed to?”

 _Me_ , Jaskier didn't say. He didn't answer at all. Geralt warned him about keeping the reincarnation thing under wraps. “It doesn't happen, people will think you're crazy, lying, or both. You don't want that reputation following you at school.” He was correct, of course, Jaskier needed to have more self control about it.

So he bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood and shook his head. “I apologize for the interruption.”

“Thank you.” The lesson continued. Jaskier didn't hear a word of it, the anger and frustration pounding inside of him, blood loud in his ears.

When the professor dismissed them, Jaskier didn't even say goodbye to Essi, he ran out of the classroom, phone already to his ear. Though Lambert was better about answering his phone because he remembered where he put it, he called Eskel, he needed to talk to Eskel.

The line clicked open. “What's wrong? Shouldn't you be in class?”

“Just ended.” Jaskier looked around for a secluded area and popped into an empty room. “How close am I supposed to keep this reincarnation thing? I've come across a lot of poems and ballads attributed to the wrong people, some of mine included.” Mostly his, but he didn't want to make it all about himself, not when other bards of old were getting passed over as well.

He heard Eskel's eyes roll through the phone. “Jaskier, we talked about this. You can't announce that you're actually that Jaskier, you'll sound insane. Most people don't even know reincarnation is a real phenomenon, you'll be laughed out of Oxenfurt.”

Jaskier walked over to the window and rested his head against the cool glass. Anger surged through him. The more he thought about his words—his words about _Geralt_ —attributed to another's lips, the angrier he became. Heat crept up his neck, the cold glass not helping at all. “It was a poem I wrote about Geralt. One of the times he left to be with Yennefer.” The memory stung behind his eyes, hot and fresh like the day it happened. Yennefer was in town. Jaskier was ready to move on, continue their journey, but Geralt wanted to stay. It was... different in those days, they weren't exclusive. Jaskier never said _Geralt_ couldn't have the witch, but fuck, he didn't want _her_ to have him. Geralt disappeared the next morning and Jaskier wrote that poem, published it out of spite. And now it supposedly belonged to Valdo...

“I know the one,” Eskel said. He was silent for a moment, weighing his words before putting new hope in Jaskier's head. “I'll bring the correct journal, have the Oxenfurt library look it over. We'll get it attributed to you. We have the primary source, they won't argue.”

“Thank you.”

He hung up the phone and bumped his head lightly against the glass. “You're not that old man,” he reminded himself. One of these days, he'd believe it. “You're here to catch up on the last seven hundred years, not relive the ninety-five you already had...” _But_ , the unhelpful voice in his head whispered, _there is no one better to guard your legacy._ Eskel did a fine job, but he was focused on preservation, making sure Jaskier's works physically survived the crush of time, and he maintained and restored Jaskier's old journals beautifully. But his legend... that had to be down to him.

Jaskier was pleased he hadn't sunk into the obscurity of the past. The Great Northern Wars were still an important point in history, and he was there for some of it, saving him a seat in the halls of history. Now it was up to him to make sure it was the correct seat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am [round--robin](https://round--robin.tumblr.com) on tumblr.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eskel stepped in close, pressing his forehead against Jaskier's, bringing his hand up to cup the back of his neck and thread his fingers through his hair. “The world will forget, the world will remember, it's the cycle of things.”
> 
> Eskel didn't mean to hurt Jaskier's feelings with blunt words... but he felt a sting at the back of his eyes all the same. “You may not care if the world forgets you, but I do,” he whispered, leaning in and nuzzling their noses together. “My most important works were about Witchers. Erasing my legacy erases yours as well, and I won't have that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of notes for this story will start with the phrase "I'm making this up." I know a little bit (see very tiny, almost minuscule amount) about publishing in general, and nothing about academic publishing. Since this is a different world, I decided to make up Oxenfurt's "system." More about that at the bottom to prevent spoiling the chapter...
> 
> I hope everyone enjoys this series, it's been a ride trying to modernize the Continent and keep the same "feel" of things. Thank you to everyone who read part one :)
> 
> Once again, the biggest thank you to my beta what_about_the_fish.

It took a few days for Eskel to drive down, but Jaskier met him with open arms. “Thank you,” he mumbled into his neck. Wrapping both arms around Jaskier's waist, Eskel lifted him so his legs dangled and he sighed happily, some of the stress of school flowing away for the moment. While Jaskier wasn't much shorter than any of them, he loved to be held in those strong arms. It was near the top of a long list of what he missed most about his Witchers.

If they were at home, it would be perfectly normal for Eskel to kiss Jaskier breathless before carrying him through the halls into the nearest bed, but they were in public and a few students turned to look. Eskel kissed his neck instead and set him down. “Help me unload the truck.”

Jaskier followed him into the parking lot. “How many journals did you bring? I only need the one.”

“Geralt said they had the date for _Toss a Coin_ wrong too. Brought a few more journals just in case you had any other old arguments to win.”

Jaskier frowned. “It's not just about winning arguments. Don't you care about legacy? I thought you of all people would care, what with how you've preserved my journals.”

Eskel stopped next to his truck and turned towards Jaskier, lips turned down at the edges. “Yes. And no. I preserved the journals to preserve you. And I did it for _us_ , not the rest of the Continent. We're old, Jaskier, none of us care how history sees us because we know it'll change again. Fifty years ago, the crown jewels of Cintra were thought lost until someone found them in a walled off chamber during a renovation of the castle. A hundred years before that, the last doppler was killed, but we know full well there's a colony outside Brokilon, waiting until humanity forgets about them before reemerging. Two hundred and fifty years before that, the world forgot _we_ existed. We were anonymous, nameless for a time, before the Third Conjunction hit and we were needed again.”

Eskel stepped in close, pressing his forehead against Jaskier's, bringing his hand up to cup the back of his neck and thread his fingers through his hair. “The world will forget, the world will remember, it's the cycle of things.”

Eskel didn't mean to hurt Jaskier's feelings with blunt words... but he felt a sting at the back of his eyes all the same. “You may not care if the world forgets you, but I do,” he whispered, leaning in and nuzzling their noses together. “My most important works were about Witchers. Erasing my legacy erases yours as well, and I won't have that.”

He saw it in those golden eyes, Eskel wanted to argue but decided against it. Stealing a kiss, he opened the truck and handed Jaskier a storage box, then slung his overnight bag onto his back. “Three journals. If you need more, I can bring them.”

He followed Jaskier to his room. Though Eskel liked to believe he didn't care what people thought of him, out of the corner of his eye, he saw gazes following them. He ducked his head—old habit more than shame—and hid his scars under a curtain of hair. Not as long as Geralt's, but just long enough to cover his cheek and the worst of the scarring. Jaskier didn't know this was the use for his hair, he was too busy cooing over Eskel when he caught him with his hair held back in a headband.

While Jaskier wanted to jump on him as soon as he closed the door, he had to set the storage box down safely. Placing it on top of his desk, Jaskier turned and lept into Eskel's arms. “Ohf!” he groaned as he absorbed the blow of Jaskier's body hitting his chest, dropping his overnight bag. “Warn me next time.”

“You can take it.” With Eskel's arms around him, Jaskier promptly stopped caring about the hows and the logistical details of their night. He was going to ride one of his Witchers into oblivion for the first time in weeks, and that's all he cared about.

One strong arm looped around him, Eskel managed to get Jaskier's belt open before dropping him onto the bed. Jaskier tried to lean up and chase his lips, but Eskel held him down with the look, keeping eye contact as he untied Jaskier's shoes, stripped his socks, pulled his jeans down... He stripped Jaskier until he was lying naked on the bed, wet eyes, pouty lips turned towards him, his gaze almost whispering _all for you tonight_.

While Jaskier knew for a fact they all had nice clothes at home—well cut linen shirts that flattered their wide shoulders, tight henleys that made bulging muscles smooth and biteable, leather pants, leather jackets, just leather for days—on the road, Eskel insisted on wearing the same ripped flannels. Red and black checked, usually with at least one stain or tear, missing half the buttons when he bothered doing them up at all, and a gray undershirt that definitely started its life as a white undershirt. Geralt was better with his sinfully tight jeans and leather travel jacket, even Lambert wore mostly black to hide any possible stains, but Eskel insisted he couldn't wear nice clothes while traveling, didn't want to get them dirty...

Jaskier didn't have to ask why Eskel showed up looking like a homeless drifter, it was obvious: he was back on The Path. They all probably were and decided not to mention it for fear of making Jaskier mad, or worse, making him sad. Eh, they'd talk about it later—oh yes, they'd definitely have words—for now, Jaskier needed to feel one of his partners in his arms, his skin almost humming with the need.

He watched avidly as Eskel pulled off one raggedy layer after another, exposing the fine chest and thick biceps that lurked under the shitty flannel. A growl built low in his chest and Jaskier spread his legs wide. “Come here.”

Eskel fell on him like a starving man. Lips brushed across his, thoroughly exploring inside his mouth, licking and drinking him in before heading over his jaw. Down his neck, tongue licking everywhere, and two rough but oh so gentle hands pushed his thighs farther apart. The tender skin on the inside of his thighs quivered under Eskel's touch and Jaskier's cock started leaking. Less than six months living at Corvo Bianco, hot and cold running Witcher ass on tap, and Jaskier was hooked, going a day without seemed like torture. So a month in a dorm with only his hands and their delightful video calls and he was absolutely gagging for it. They could get to the foreplay later, when Eskel wanted it slow and sensual, right now, Jaskier _wanted_ , plain and simple.

One of Eskel's long arms opened the bedside drawer, grabbing the bottle of lube without breaking their kiss or taking his other hand off Jaskier. Eight hundred years of fucking experience made itself useful in so many ways. Popping the cap open, Eskel licked into Jaskier's mouth, swallowing his moans. For his part, Jaskier tried to wiggle and writhe, but found himself held down by the thick slab of Witcher above him. With one hand holding his thighs open, a hot tongue in his mouth and two warm fingers in his ass, Jaskier couldn't find a single thing in the world to complain about.

The fingers withdrew and the squish of lube made Jaskier moan again. When the fat head of Eskel's cock kissed his hole, he almost cried out. Eskel swallowed the noise, smirking against his lips. “Dorm walls probably aren't very well sound proofed...” he whispered.

“Who fucking cares?” Jaskier threw his arms around Eskel's neck, locking them together.

He whined when the cock head disappeared and was met with a quiet, “Shush, one second...” The grip on his thighs shifted, down to his calves, easing them towards broad shoulders. After some shifting and a little stretching, Jaskier's legs were pressed flush against Eskel's chest, ankles resting on his shoulders.

“Fuck,” Jaskier hissed. His thighs tugged a little at the stretch, but one look to see how fucking close Eskel was now made the discomfort well worth it. Licking his lips, Eskel settled himself again, the crown of his cock pressing in.

Jaskier wanted fast, he wanted that raw need to feel you kind of fucking. Leave it to Eskel to give him tender on top of all that. Though he slid in quick enough to steal Jaskier's breath, the kisses up the side of his face and the nose sniffing through his hair made his heart clench. The first sinuous roll of his hips rippled through Eskel's whole body, the lithe grace of a hunter, their position letting him go so deep, Jaskier felt Eskel's heart beat in his stomach.

“Yes,” Jaskier panted. Completely pinned to the bed, there was little else he could do but take it, and boy did he want to. “Yes!” Throwing his head back into the pillows, he gave himself over to the growling wolf above him.

With so much of Jaskier pressed against him, Eskel had trouble holding out. His smell still lingered around the house, on their sheets and the few clothes he left in the closets, but the raw hit of it from his skin... oh, Eskel was not going to last very long at all. He snapped his hips and kissed up the calf against his chest, biting lightly.

“Fuck, Eskel,” Jaskier groaned. A hand went to his cock, jerking fast. Eskel took that as his cue to speed up and he had just enough control to wait for Jaskier to tighten around him before letting his body take over.

A flare of white heat shot down his spine, through his balls and up his shaft. His hips stuttered, filling Jaskier as his vision whited out. Oh, a month was far too long... Eskel dropped his head and buried his teeth in Jaskier's neck, the hint of his salty human musk and lavender pushing one last pulse through him.

While they were both glad to bask in the other's scent for the next hour, the position was not comfortable long term and Eskel quickly rolled off. He helped Jaskier stretch out before spooning up behind him, the deep predator inside of him purring as his own spend leaked out onto his thigh. They were both sweaty, covered in lube and come, but Eskel wasn't leaving this bed until morning. Jaskier scheduled their meeting with the head librarian deliberately to give them time, and Essi knew he'd be _occupied_ tonight.

“Fuck,” Jaskier sighed, chest heaving. “Didn't know I needed to take up yoga.” The burn in his thighs went from pleasant to pinching. He didn't think his legs would even work until tomorrow.

“Mmm, not a bad idea. I've had seven hundred years with Lambert, he's very bendy.”

“Oh yes, I'm aware.” The memory of Lambert in a full split while speared on Geralt's cock was one he went to often when he wanted to jerk off. But a memory didn't compare to the real thing, and Jaskier was an expert on that, what with two lives worth of memories living in his head. The recollection of what Geralt's hair felt like paled in comparison to ruining his hands through the gossamer strands, another thing he missed while at school.

With Eskel at his back, kissing and licking up his neck, warm arms surrounding him, Jaskier was perfectly happy to settle in for a nap. Maybe they'd get dinner later. Eskel had to have at least one passable shirt, they could go into Oxenfurt city proper, show off one of his gorgeous partners at a nice restaurant...

The nudge of a hard cock against his side made Jaskier sigh. Oh yes, how did he forget about this? Up all the time. _All the time_. “Mmm, might need a minute,” he grumbled even as his own cock started to take interest.

Eskel chuckled, the warm sound rumbling down his spine. “Don't tell me you're already tapped out,” he purred. “You're nineteen, you're supposed to be full of vigor.”

“I am, but my ass isn't.” He rolled over and pressed lazy kisses down Eskel's neck. “It hasn't had this much exercise in weeks.”

“Maybe you should borrow one of those toys you buy for Lambert. Keep you in shape.” Teeth nipped at the love bite already rising on Jaskier's neck, making it more livid. He really should put a stop to that, at least until after their meeting. “Guess I'll have to ride you all night. Such a burden.” Eskel threw one leg over Jaskier's hips and rolled on top, grinding them together a little before reaching for the lube.

Jaskier lay back and watched Eskel work, arm reaching behind himself to press two fingers in... fuck, what a sight. When that same hand wrapped around his cock, hot and slick, he gasped. “I do love watching you ride,” he gasped. “You're quite the jockey.”

They did not go to dinner. Jaskier had enough snacks stored in his room to keep Eskel away from his fucking trail rations. They didn't want to put on clothes, let alone step out of reach for more than a second. He did convince Eskel they shouldn't climb in the same dorm shower—bad taste, it wasn't his personal bathroom—and Eskel waited outside the thin curtain, biting his lip and trying not to wank off in what was essentially a public bathroom. The Witcher reputation was fraught enough.

Though Jaskier set their meeting at the library for a reasonable time (the head librarian had a wide open schedule, but Jaskier needed time to ravage Eskel) they were almost late. As it turned out, fucking a randy Witcher was not a replacement for sleep.

Eskel tried to stop him from swinging by the coffee cart across the courtyard. “We're going to be late, it isn't very professional.”

“Well I can't subsist on your come alone,” he said a little too loud. “I need a muffin or I will pass out, which is more unprofessional.” Jaskier ate the blueberry muffin in three bites and dragged Eskel towards the library. They made it by the skin of their teeth.

The head librarian, a lovely woman named Zola Elp, who looked to have a little dwarf blood in her, met them outside the office. Her eyes went wide when she saw the storage box under Eskel's arm. “Oh my, is that... are those Jaskier's journals?” She ushered them into her office and gave the floor to Eskel.

They had to... take a bit of a detour around the truth. No outright lies, but Jaskier knew to keep the reincarnation thing under wraps. “I'm not sure if this is still common knowledge,” Eskel explained to Zola, “but Jaskier was a dear friend to the School of the Wolf. He entrusted his things to us and I've tried to keep them in the best condition possible.”

Gathered around the study table, they were all wearing gloves, even Jaskier, who had no intention of touching the journals. They were his, and Eskel said he was welcome to see them, but part of him felt... odd about it. Eskel did so much to preserve them, and paper was especially susceptible to the wear of time. Jaskier didn't feel he had the right to them anymore, not when he almost discarded some of the journals and notes Eskel spent his life preserving.

“There was much upheaval during that time, Oxenfurt wasn't always safe, our keep was.” He gently turned the page, supporting the whole page with his hand. Zola's eyes went wide. “As you can see, here is the original draft of _Toss a Coin_ , we know this is the journal from 1240. He writes about a few other events that have been put in 1240, giving us a definitive date. He published right away—it was easy in those days—and I think the confusion on the date comes from _Toss a Coin's_ popularity. It was in circulation in late 1240, but didn't catch on as a tavern staple until 1243.”

“Wonderful. Wonderful!” Zola chirped, clapping trembling hands together. “Primary sources from that era are sadly few and far between, mostly because of the turbulent climate you mentioned. Our archives are woefully incomplete due to the Radovid shut down. We only have a few pieces from Jaskier, and they're mostly sketches.”

Eskel's lips turned down. “Yes, I'm aware. I've put in a request for study quite a few times. I keep getting denied, I don't have a recognizable degree and won't publish any findings.” Jaskier scowled behind his back. Leaving alone the fact that Eskel had lived through history and didn't need a fucking degree to prove his knowledge, he was still smarter than most of the students here and some of the professors besides. Geralt and Eskel would fit in easily at Oxenfurt, their keen minds looking to soak up knowledge. Lambert had a hell of a brain on him too, but he was far too restless, even after mellowing over the last seven hundred years.

Much to her credit, Zola frowned as well. “Yes, I've seen some of your correspondences. I don't like to speak ill of a colleague, but our head of research initiatives is very focused on publishing, a little too much at times. Publish or perish. Work on this period isn't typically done—again, not enough primary sources—and he'd want a paper or an article to get attention to our collection.”

Eskel frowned. “We're very private, I wouldn't want my name out there like that.” Jaskier longed to take Eskel into his arms and cuddle away the frown on his face. They long ago learned the price of meddling in human affairs. Eskel had always been better about staying out of it, but his thirst for knowledge—one of his few enduring pleasures after so long—was a siren call he tried to ignore.

“I understand. And I thank you for sharing this part of your collection with us. I'll speak to our archivists. And the Oxenfurt Printing House does most of the text books we use in classes, they have new editions every two years, I'll see about getting this information into their hands as fast as possible.”

They spoke for a little longer, Jaskier hanging back as Eskel went over the mistakes and misattributions Jaskier had found. By the time they left the library, Valdo Marx's body of work was a little lighter and Jaskier's a little fuller. “Thank you,” he whispered, leaning into Eskel's arm, their fingers laced together. “I really appreciate you bringing those here. And it's not just because I can't stand Valdo, I'm not _that_ petty.”

Eskel smirked and squeezed his hand. “I know. You forget, I was in love with Geralt before you were. If any of the poems I wrote about him ended up attributed to Letho of Gullet, I'd be pissed.”

Jaskier's eyes went wide. “Poems!” he gasped. “You wrote poems about Geralt! Can I see them? Where are they? The storage at home?” Eskel was too shy to share such things, even among his partners. All sorts of plans and ideas filled Jaskier's head; a late night heist into the vaults under Corvo Bianco, searching out Eskel's writing on old crumpled papers.

“I wrote them when we were young, adolescent love. When they took Geralt for extra mutations, I didn't see him for almost two months. I had to make sure there was some proof I actually loved him, some small shred of evidence if he didn't make it back.” Eskel pulled Jaskier closer, the human warmth grounding him in the now, not back in those dark days so many life times ago. “They probably all burned when Kaer Morhen got attacked—the first time, the second time—they're gone now.”

They went back to Jaskier's room and Eskel let him lay him down on the bed and worship every part of his body. Jaskier wanted to say how much he loved them all, whisper longing and need into Eskel's skin, let him know the harshest part of their lives was long gone... he tried to say it with his tongue, lips and teeth as he covered that scarred body in kisses and love bites. Eskel seemed to get the message.

Though Jaskier suspected he'd never quite get his fill of touching his wolves, when they were less horny, showered and dressed, he introduced Eskel to Essi, who was very excited about meeting a Witcher. “You're so lucky! My ancestor was infatuated with a Witcher as well, don't know what became of him though...”

“I do.” Jaskier elbowed Eskel to shut him up.

“Dinner then?” Jaskier asked, looping one arm through Eskel's crooked elbow, the other through Essi's. “He has to take off in the morning, he was only here for the library meeting.”

“Oh, yes!” Essi bounced, tugging on Jaskier's arm. “We should go to the Golden Swan! They do the best rack of lamb.” Though Jaskier was skimpy with the details, Essi now knew about his relationship...s. She'd heard his stories of ravenously hungry Witchers, had always wanted to see it for herself. So, with one ravenous Witcher on his arm, they headed towards the Golden Swan to watch Eskel inhale everything on the menu.

Though his belly bulged with food (Eskel offered to pay, no way Jaskier wasn't eating his fill) he still managed to take Eskel one last time, spreading him out on the bed that was barely big enough to contain his massive shoulders. Eskel's back pressed against his chest, Jaskier ran his nose up his neck, biting gently. His hips rolled nice and slow, letting Eskel feel every inch of him. “I love you,” he whispered. “And I miss you... all of you.”

“We miss you too,” Eskel said. He arched back, trying to touch as much of Jaskier as possible.

As they lay in bed that night, curled around each other for possibly the last time for a while, Jaskier didn't want to talk about The Path, but he really needed to. “You're being careful?” He swirled a finger through Eskel's chest hair, getting as much touch as he could before they had to part again. “Not taking anything too big?” They could handle big contracts, no question of that, but there was always a risk.

“While there is a great deal about modernity that I'd happily chuck, cell phones are not one of those things.” He kissed Jaskier's sweaty hair, inhaling deep. “We're better about asking each other for help these days. Even Lambert. We call for back up when we need it and actually wait for each other to show up. We're as safe as we can be.”

Jaskier dropped the subject and let Eskel cuddle him. None of them actually came out and said they were hunting again, he just assumed it. After so many dropped calls with Geralt when he was out driving in the middle of nowhere without cell service, overheard arguments over a pool table when he talked to Lambert, and the quiet shush of wind in the hills when Eskel remembered to answer his phone, Jaskier knew they were out there. In a way, it was only a matter of time. At their core, Witchers were hunters, it was hard to keep them from The Path.

Essi helped Jaskier see Eskel off in the morning, politely averting her eyes when Eskel lifted him and pinned him against the truck, thrusting a thigh between his legs. “I'll miss you,” he mumbled into Jaskier's soft lips. “Belleteyn can't come quickly enough...”

He promised to stop at Corvo Bianco before heading out again in search of monsters. Part of Jaskier hoped the comforts of home would call to him and at least one of them would stay put for a while. He doubted it though. With an arm around Essi, he pulled her into a hug as they watched Eskel drive away. “Thank you for tolerating me this weekend. I appreciate it.”

“No problem, I liked meeting a Witcher.” She pulled out of the hug and looked him dead in the eye, eyes bright but mouth firm. “There's more to it, isn't there?” Essi whispered. “More than just the journals and the Witchers.”

“Hmm? What do you mean?”

“Follow me.” Taking his hand, Essi led Jaskier back inside, turning them towards the library. All the way in the back, passed the stacks with the oldest books, beyond the offices and secret study nooks where people came to fuck, to the door of the rare book room.

This part of the library's collection was open to students, but very few people came back this far. You needed a signed form from a professor to see any of the books outside of the cases, and they weren't in circulation. And, it wasn't just books: old objects from the Academy's collection were housed here as well, paintings of various headmasters from so very long ago that were too fragile for regular display, fragments of Kellen the Quick's flute, thought to be one of the first traveling bards on the Continent.

Essie opened the door and dragged Jaskier inside, all the way to the back corner of the room. Behind a sheet of glass, between two headmasters, a very familiar portrait looked down on them from the wall. The canvas had faded, the colors not as bright, and a bit of the background had torn and was repaired at least twice, but there was no mistaking that face.

A lump rose in Jaskier's throat. Geralt said they didn't have any paintings of Jaskier, they had seven hundred years to search the Continent, and if they couldn't find one, none must exist... yet here was his old faculty portrait, just sitting on the wall, probably been there for years.

Essi nudged his arm. “Like I said, there's more to it.”

“Yes. There is.” Jaskier looked down at her, eyes so very blue, just like his Essi, but without the lock of hair determined to always cover at least one. After a weekend defending his legacy, talking of the old days like they were just something he read about, holding Eskel close and feeling the years under his skin... Jaskier couldn't hold back the truth. “I... I'm Jaskier.” He nodded towards the painting. “ _That_ Jaskier.”

Eyes going wide, Essi started to bounce. “I knew it!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My idea is that Oxenfurt is the defacto academic/cultural capital of the North, so all the publishers there have a deal with the academy: we'll print your text books for a discount, but if your students produce new work/books/research, you send them to us for publishing. So with Jaskier's collection, the library is looking to incorporate it into the school's texts and make a deal with the publishing houses to produce copies for mass sale. This is neither here nor there, but I spent a lot of time thinking about it and wanted to explain my thoughts.
> 
> I am [round--robin](https://round--robin.tumblr.com) on tumblr.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A weight disappeared from Jaskier's mind, a weight he didn't know he was carrying. All the times he held his tongue in class, whenever he accidentally played one of his “lost” ballads and was suddenly surrounded by music professors and had to lie... it took a toll. Eskel and Geralt were right, he couldn't just go around willy nilly, claiming to be reincarnated, but Essi... she figured it out. Surely, that meant she was ready to hold the secret?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Essi and Jaskier discuss a few old bards in this chapter. I made them up. I'm going to say that a lot in this fic: I made up a bunch of history I couldn't find. Thank you for indulging my world building.
> 
> Please enjoy <3

A weight disappeared from Jaskier's mind, a weight he didn't know he was carrying. All the times he held his tongue in class, whenever he accidentally played one of his “lost” ballads and was suddenly surrounded by music professors and had to lie... it took a toll. Eskel and Geralt were right, he couldn't just go around willy nilly, claiming to be reincarnated, but Essi... she figured it out. Surely, that meant she was ready to hold the secret?

“And it is a secret,” Jaskier told her once she stopped bouncing. “I'm serious, you can't tell anyone. We have no idea what might happen if people find out.” People, the Academy, mages... The latter who might want to see Jaskier vivisected just to confirm the reincarnation.

“I promise, I won't tell anyone.” Her little blue eyes filled with happy tears and she started bouncing again. “I knew there was too much to it! My family found Essi's old composition books decades ago and put some of her ballads back into circulation, but there's no way we have her whole catalog. I've heard you sing songs scholars thought lost for centuries. And then a Witcher shows up! Where goes Jaskier, you shall find a Witcher. That's what Essi said, at least.”

“Yes, she would...” Jaskier remembered Essi saying words to that effect, a year or so after their one and only joint adventure with Geralt, with the mermaids and the mysterious steps leading down into the depths of the sea. A glimpse of the blue pearl set in a silver flower appeared behind his eyes, the pearl he buried with her. Jaskier vowed to find another blue pearl for his new Essi.

Having a partner in crime (who wasn't Lambert, always willing to get one over on his brothers at the drop of a hat) made school much more tolerable. Though the professors now knew of Jaskier's “family collection” of the first Jaskier's works, there were more than a few misattributed poems and ballads floating around in his classes.

Whenever Essi saw the set of his jaw and the anger rising, she leaned over and whispered, “You're the one everyone wanted to emulate. Barnabas, Yavi, after half a decade their prose looked like yours. You were the best, and people copied the best. So history lost it, you know what lines are yours and so do your Witchers, that's all that matters.”

Though it felt like a bit of a hollow victory, the words calmed him all the same. Many of his contemporaries had tried to copy his style, some to flatter him, some to brazenly steal. Yet after so long, the work of Jaskier the Bard was still considered required reading in the field of Romantic Ballad and Poetry from the Great Northern Wars Period. There were worse legacies to have.

With the new weight of a student with access to Jaskier's composition books and journals, the Academy suddenly found itself much more open to allowing Eskel to study their collection, which meant he was off The Path and spending more time with Jaskier—both wonderful side effects. He brought copies of composition books and Jaskier was working with the music department, recording all the old songs again for their archives. Jaskier didn't know if he wanted to release said songs. First off, did anyone other than music and history students still listen to old ballads? Yes, bardic tradition was still alive and well, newer musicians releasing bound collections of their work to get their names out there... but was that the same?

And secondly, wasn't that kind of coming out and shouting his reincarnation to the world? There were a few too many unanswered questions, so Jaskier held off despite his teachers encouraging him to publish. He wasn't ready yet, a decision Eskel supported.

“It'll be good to focus on the academic side of things first,” he purred, laying on the other side of Jaskier's too small bed, fingers carding through his hair. “Don't need to make you a famous musician again quite yet.”

Madame Drella, his singing teacher, couldn't get over all the notes Jaskier showed her. Even the smallest scribbling of half a line pleased her to no end. “Once lost, but newly found! Oh, you can't ask for a better story than that! And you have such a lovely voice dear, you haven't trained anywhere before? Well, talent must run in your family then.”

He elbowed Eskel to get him to stop laughing. “Yes, good genes, I think. And my gran was part elf, that helps a bit.”

“Yes, they do have amazing natural singing voices, very ethereal,” Madame Drella agreed.

Back in his room, Jaskier barely shut the door before Eskel was upon him, chests pressed together, golden eyes pinning him in place. Large, scarred hands slid down his arms, resting on his hips and grinding them together. Jaskier groaned, but he kept his eyes on Eskel. He never liked looking away from a wolf, especially one who looked ready to devour him...

“When exactly were you going to tell us you were part elf?” His voice was soft and even, but the fire in his eyes told Jaskier exactly what was going to happen tonight.

“When it came up? Life has been such a whirlwind lately, you'll forgive me for not divulging every bit of family history. And it's such a tiny part, I don't—”

Hot lips covered his as Eskel's talented hands slipped Jaskier's belt from his jeans. The buckle hit the floor, followed by the rest of Jaskier's clothes. Eskel dropped to his knees, still fully dressed, and lifted Jaskier until he was sitting on Eskel's shoulders. With nothing but the door at his back and Eskel's sure hands holding him up, Jaskier received the most dangerous blow job he ever remembered being a part of. His feet didn't touch the floor as he came, Eskel's hair gripped in his hands to try and pretend he didn't feel like he was about to fall and smash his head on the dresser.

Legs mostly boneless, Eskel placed him on the bed and finally stripped out of his clothes. Settling between Jaskier's thighs, he pressed kisses all over—up his chest, teeth caught his nipples before continuing up his neck and nibbling his ear lobe—Eskel was everywhere at once and it was all he could do not to come again.

“How long?” A husky voice whispered in his ear as two lubed fingers pressed inside. “How long might we have you this time? Tell me, Jaskier, please. I need to know.”

“Uh...” Jaskier's brain wasn't at its best during sex, especially the way Eskel was trying to crawl inside him. The fat head of Eskel's cock slowly spread him open and Jaskier's mind snapped like a rubber band. “Two hundred? Maybe... I can ask...” His gran died just shy of her second centennial, his dad was almost at his first and still in rude health, but Jaskier didn't really want to think about his family tree at a moment like this.

“Two hundred years.” Eskel breathed the words into his skin as his hips snapped. “Two hundred years.” Over and over, he whispered, “Two Hundred years...” as he fucked Jaskier. When Jaskier came, he squeezed his legs around Eskel's chest tight enough to steal his breath. “Two hundred years...” he mumbled as they fell asleep.

This was a short visit to deliver a few more journals with so called lost ballads, Eskel had to leave in the morning, so he didn't mind when Jaskier woke in the middle of the night and spooned up behind him for round two. “Two hundred years,” Jaskier whispered with a bite to his ear. “You have me for two hundred years. Let's see if you all can go that long without strangling me.” As soon as Eskel told Geralt and Lambert, he got multiple excited phone calls and some very sexy pictures of Lambert on the bed, well worth the call to his mum to verify the family lineage.

Classes got easier, Jaskier got to know his professors a little better through their various projects with Eskel's collection. Essi was a life line though. Along with keeping the whole “reincarnation” thing under wraps, Jaskier didn't like to advertise he was fucking the last three Witchers on the Continent. His name got him enough looks as it was, especially now that it started showing up in the library more and more, stamped on reference materials in every music lesson. The lost ballads were an academic hit, and his name was attached to each and every one.

It wasn't just Eskel who visited, all three stopped by every few weeks on their way to one contract or another and Essi was quick to run interference when they got a little too... distracted. When Lambert stopped by for a quicky on his way up the Pontar and Jaskier was too wrapped up in his lips to notice the tour group around the corner, Essi ran across their path and made up a convincing lie about guided meditation going on in the sculpture garden, come back in ten minutes—one glance towards Lambert on his knees in the bushes, Jaskier's hand in his hair as they both growled—and she revised that to half an hour.

Geralt was a bit harder to hide. Setting aside the very noticeable hair (Jaskier made the White Wolf famous for many, many, years to come) Geralt attended lectures there once upon a time and had his name on a fucking lecture theatre. So did Jaskier, but that was hardly the point. The idea that Jaskier de Stael—descendant of _the_ Jaskier—was dating the same Geralt of Rivia that the original Jaskier was once “intimately connected with” wasn't too difficult for most people to swallow and rumors soon flew around campus. There were always rumors when it came to the more dramatic arts, mostly the theatre kids, but in the past, some of the seven liberal arts students earned themselves quite a reputation for who they fucked... and now Jaskier was in that group for the second time in his second life. He didn't quite know how he felt about that.

“You're being safe, right? All of you?” Jaskier asked. Despite Eskel's promises, he intended to exact the same promise from them all. If they wanted to traipse around the Continent, fine, but they better be smart about it.

Geralt had one heavy arm across his shoulders as they walked, Essi on Jaskier's other side. Geralt saw the resemblance as well and approved of the blue pearl Jaskier found for her. It wasn't exactly like the one he gave to the first Essi, more a sky blue than the color of a deep ocean, but it was close enough to make them all happy.

Geralt didn't answer. They were ostensibly on a tour of the campus, showing Geralt all the changes over the centuries and Jaskier's faculty portrait in the library. He promised not to steal it for Eskel's collection, though Jaskier had his doubts he'd stick to that promise. Jaskier gave him a nudge. “First you said you'd stay retired for a full year, then you all went back on The Path without telling me. At least say you'll be safe.”

He gave in. “Safer than we used to be. We check in with each other more. We keep in contact with you, don't stray too far from Corvo Bianco or much past Oxenfurt. Is that enough? Are we safe by your standards?”

Jaskier thought for a moment, it was essentially the answer he got from Eskel, which either meant they actually were keeping in contact, or they coordinated their stories. “I guess so. Given what you all got up to in the past, I supposed I should count myself lucky.”

Jaskier took them to a little cafe in Oxenfurt city proper and Geralt spent the rest of the day casting dark looks everywhere. “This used to be a barber's,” he grumbled as they ate. “Is the Three Little Bells still around?”

They found the Three Little Bells—or its replacement—and Geralt sampled the ale. It met with his approval and Jaskier watched him down four more pints in quick succession, not enough to get him drunk, but definitely enough for him to feel it. Essi bid them goodnight and Jaskier hauled Geralt back to his dorm, the slightest flush in his cheeks.

But no amount of alcohol could dampen the adore of a Witcher, as soon as Jaskier got Geralt to his bed, the White Wolf pulled him down, burning lips sliding up his neck. “You know, I never understood all that college coed fetish stuff...” A whoosh of air against his skin as Geralt inhaled deeply made Jaskier shiver. “But I think I'm starting to get it.”

“Oh, we can do that if you like.” Jaskier's fingers worked quickly to pull Geralt out of his boots and shirt. Like usual, his jeans were so tight his cock just fell out, landing in Jaskier's hand like it was magnetized there. “Mmm, tell me Professor Rivia, what do I need to do to get an A this term?”

“Many, many things,” Geralt purred, fingers tugging Jaskier's hair, urging him down. “Let's start with your oral exam...”

* * *

Another good part of Essi knowing his secret was they got to make fun of idiots together. One of the departments on campus—the alchemy majors, something like that—had a rugby match every year against another department. They were a bunch of meat heads and to be honest, Jaskier hadn't given them a second thought, until he heard their team name. “The Witchers versus the Dragons, ha! We have to go watch this.”

It was the Fraternal Order of Alchemy against the History Department, Contemporary and Ancient. The key difference seemed to be the Alchemy Department only let men join their team, while the Ancient History wing of the History team had several burly ladies who'd give Geralt a run for his money. The oh so mighty “Witchers” probably picked their team name based on the mistaken belief that the alchemy—the mutations and potions—was the real key to a Witcher's success, when in reality the mutations just made them sturdy, the training made them deadly. Essi and Jaskier watched with glee as the joined halves of the History Department absolutely crushed the alchemists. There really was no contest.

“I have the sudden need to buy the history kids a drink,” Jaskier said.

The rest of the term passed with a few parties and nights out with those same history kids—a good group, they loved Jaskier's stories—they liked raiding the oldest taverns in town and drunkenly asking the serving staff questions about the building. Jaskier was more than happy to take their questions so they'd leave the poor servers alone.

“Wilhelm, dearest, for the sixth time no,” Jaskier said, resting a hand on Wilhelm's back. “Gwent isn't like chess. Yes, it's a battlefield, moving troops about, but chess is a _metaphor_. Gwent is straight up throwing fireballs at the enemy's battlefield. Not very subtle.”

“How do you know this?” Wilhelm scoffed, tipping back the last of his pint. “No one's played Gwent in like a hundred years. I've only seen a full deck in a museum!”

“How do you keep forgetting this?” Lizzel kicked him under the table. “Jaskier's the one dating the Witcher. He knows all the old things! Helped me with my Second Northern War essay last month.”

Wilhelm's eyes lit up, shining brighter because of all the alcohol in his system. “That's right! Tell me again, when was Geralt born?”

“1160,” Jaskier said.

Wilhelm's eyes went wide. “Fuck... I'm so jealous. You've got a walking, talking primary source at home. Got any other Witchers on you? I'd love to meet one.”

“Mmm, sorry, fresh out.” Jaskier hid his smirk in his drink and kicked Essi under the table to make her hide her own.

Lizzel, though slightly less drunk, was in the stage of marveling at Jaskier's good fortune. “Man, why aren't you a history major?”

“Because I can't use Geralt as a citation on a paper,” Jaskier said. Well, he probably could, but Geralt's guarded words wouldn't work for a proper paper. He could imagine the quotes, “Yes, I was there. Battle happened, people died, I didn't. That's it really...”

With a few more friends, Jaskier began feeling like his old self again—the happy, social man who was at home in any room. He'd always been like that, even as a child, it was nice to find it again. Though he loved Geralt, Eskel and Lambert dearly, holding them a secret along with his own story made him withdraw a little more than he liked. Finally, that defensive attitude was starting to break away. Jaskier started to fit at Oxenfurt again, one last piece of the puzzle of his old life settling into the correct place.

A week before Belleteyn break, Jaskier was eager to return home and spend the summer with his Witchers again. Almost a full year since Geralt stumbled across him in Upper Posada, crazy... Lambert said Geralt wasn't actually around for Belleteyn itself, he had a standing meeting with Yennefer to drink wine sadly and reminisce about Ciri— “Don't worry, they don't fuck anymore. Stopped ages before you came along.” —he reported rather unhelpfully. Jaskier tried to block out the memories of Yennefer and what she and Geralt shared. It wasn't like with Lambert and Eskel, all of them wrapped up together through centuries and centuries of love and mutual need; there was something different about how he was with Yennefer, a connection none of them could feel or see... Jaskier tried not to look at it too closely. Yennefer could have her one day a year with him, especially when Jaskier had him all the others.

With break just around the corner and all their exams finished up, Jaskier expected to spend the last few days on campus relaxing with Essi as they picked their classes for next term. The summer/autumn term was longer than spring term, so these were the classes that usually assigned long projects: write a novel, start a collection of sonnets; hundred page research paper due in five months. Not to mention he had a history requirement coming up and Wilhelm and Lizzel were full of suggestions. There was pressure, but Jaskier was also excited.

He was flipping through the course catalog on the grass when Essi ran over, throwing a flier into his face. “The Alchemy idiots are at it again. We _have_ to go.”

_The Alchemical Sciences Department Presents: Witchers, Telling FACT from FICTION_

Jaskier laughed far too loud, scaring a few birds from their perch in a nearby tree. “Oh my, fact from fiction? They wouldn't know a Witcher if one came up and bit them.” A sensation Jaskier was intimately familiar with. “Yes, we are so going to this.”

His clothes and lute packed, Jaskier had a flight in the morning and plans for all three of them to pick him up at the Beauclair airport and spend a nice ten days together before Geralt disappeared through a portal to see Yennefer. One last night laughing at the Alchemy Department seemed like the best way to close out his first term at Oxenfurt Academy.

He and Essi got seats at the back of the lecture hall so their laughter didn't actually interrupt, they weren't that cruel. Half the meatheads from the rugby team flooded the stage behind the department head, setting up slides and visual aids for him. The lights dimmed and the lecture began. A slide with a drawing of Kaer Seren appeared and right away, a split formed in Jaskier's chest. Poor Coën, Jaskier might have his dearest Witchers back, but he missed their other friends as well. Vesemir, Aiden, a few others who passed through Kaer Morhen over the years, always happy to meet him and see a smiling face instead of one that scorned them.

Jaskier tried his best to keep up a running commentary for Essi. “Wrong. Oh, so very wrong... Huh, they actually got that one right. Oh fuck no, Witchers never had gills, they have enhanced lung capacity. How did they mix up Cat and Tawney Owl? How can they be so very wrong about mostly everything?”

A few people in the row in front of them turned to glare, but others giggled along. Most of the students were from other departments and Jaskier guessed they were here to laugh as well. The slide show ended and the lights turned on. Jaskier gathered his bag, believing the lecture over, when the department head raised his hands for calm.

“This is the history of Witchers, but the Alchemical Sciences Department is interested in their future as well. As part of a long term research project in partnership with the Government of Redania, our Applied Alchemy Laboratory is working to replicate the mutation formulas that created Witchers over a thousand years ago. While our research is in its first phases, we have had great success in animal trials, and we are looking to begin human trials in the next five years. Witchers abandoned this Content when it most needed them, Oxenfurt Academy will bring them back again.”

Jaskier's mouth dropped open in horror, all the color draining from his face. The speaker turned, gesturing to half their fucking rugby team with their stupid smug faces. “Along with assisting in the research and development phases, Mr. Andon, Mr. Keller, and Mr. York have volunteered to be among the first human subjects. We're very excited for—”

“No!” The voice was Jaskier's, but he didn't remember saying the word. He didn't remember climbing to his feet and yet he was standing, hands balled into fists at his side, his whole body shaking. All eyes were on him now, in the audience, down at the lectern. He did not care one tiny bit. “Do you know how fucking insane that is?”

He didn't wait for a response. Pushing past the unfortunate person sitting next to him, Jaskier ran from the lecture hall, Essi scrambling to keep up. He yanked his phone from his pocket and called Geralt.

“What's wrong?” a half groggy voice asked. No matter how many times he called them just to chat, or talk about his day, or have phone sex, they all assumed the worst first. This time, he happened to be right.

“Where are you? Which one of you is closest? You all need to come to Oxenfurt right the fuck now.” Jaskier hated the shout in his voice. He wasn't even walking anymore, just pacing the dim halls, Essi finally caught up to him but gave him a wide berth as his anger seeded off into the air around him, making the world feel boiling hot.

“Jaskier, calm down. What's wrong?”

“Did they tell you? Did anyone fucking call you?” He took a deep breath and stopped moving. Hands still clenched, the case of his phone creaked with how tight he gripped it. “I just came from a lecture by the Alchemical Sciences Department. They were talking about Witchers, I thought it would be funny to see what they got wrong...” Another deep breath to stop the renewed shaking. “Geralt, they said they're starting a project to recreate the mutations. They want to start turning people into Witchers again. They want—” The tears started now, hot and sudden and Jaskier was helpless to stop them. “They want to go back to the days of sacrificing you for the sake of humanity. Seven hundred fucking years and humans have not changed. They want to rip others down to assure their survival.”

“We won't let them.” Though his voice was calm, Jaskier heard Geralt's rage simmering under the surface. “Lambert and Eskel are at home, I'm half a day out.” An engine roared to life and growling tires sounded through the phone. “I'll be there by late morning. Whatever you do, don't get on your plane. I'll call Lambert and Eskel, get them there as fast as possible.”

“Thank you.”

“Jaskier, I love you. We won't let this happen.”

“I love you too, I love you, I love you.”

Jaskier disconnected the call and crumpled to his knees, all his rage vanishing in a rush, leaving him so very exhausted. Essi's soft hands wrapped around his waist, pulling him to his feet. “C'mon, let's get you to bed. They'll be here soon, they'll fix it.”

“Essi...” Jaskier tried not to lean on her, she was so small, so fragile, all humans were fragile. “You don't know what they do to boys to make them Witchers. You don't know what they go through. It's beyond torture.” Geralt didn't like talking about it, none of them did for good reason, but Jaskier found books in the Kaer Morhen library, accounts from Witchers reflecting on their own mutations and trials in their later years. It painted a picture, a picture Jaskier never wanted released into the world again. Compared to the mutagens, experiments, potions and trials, the grueling combat training they all went through was a walk in the park.

And that knowledge was still there! They trained Ciri without mutating her, she was as strong and capable as any of them, but the Alchemy idiots wanted to revive the worst part of being a Witcher? Where the fuck did they get off?

Essi got Jaskier to his room and tucked him into bed. She offered to stay with him until he fell asleep, but she had an early flight and he bid her goodbye. “I'll see you for autumn term...”

When the door closed behind her, Jaskier curled into a ball, tears silently leaking down his face. He missed the Witchers he once knew, would do anything to see them again, to laugh with Coën or Aiden, but none of them would wish this life on another generation of boys. Jaskier cried himself to sleep, memories of Geralt, Eskel and Lambert's nightmares flicking behind his eyes. Holding them when they woke in fright, barely able to keep their dinner down. Their winter bed was the safest place in all the Continent, but it still stood in a castle that saw their torture... he didn't think they ever got over that.

It never truly left them, which meant it never truly left him either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I've mentioned before: I'm good with long lived Jaskier, not immortal Jaskier. Everyone will just have to satisfy themselves with that :)
> 
> I am [round--robin](https://round--robin.tumblr.com) on tumblr.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reluctantly, Jaskier closed his eyes. He was still exhausted, but seeing them both together, touching them, it made him miss home even more. Before the Alchemy lecture, Jaskier had been fine at school, his homesickness carefully held at bay by the distraction of classes, friends, and calls to his Witchers and to his mother every other day. But now... fuck, Jaskier never wanted to leave Corvo Bianco again. He wanted to drive home as fast as possible, burrow into their bed and never emerge. Though the world seemed evolved and new, it was still filled with people who tortured and maimed for their own gain. Jaskier no longer wanted to be a part of that world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As far as timeline goes, this is the end of Jaskier's first term at Oxenfurt.
> 
> Big thank you to my beta, what_about_the_fish <3

The adrenaline that raced through him one moment disappeared the next, pushing Jaskier into a deep, exhausted sleep. Before dawn, a fucking portal opened in his room, shocking him from that dead slumber. Eskel and Lambert fell out, both shaking and checking all their limbs were still attached. “How—”

A finger on his lips silenced Jaskier's question. “Shush, I called in a favor. Go back to sleep,” Eskel said. They both curled around him, the student bed barely big enough for two, but they made it work, sandwiching Jaskier between two solid bodies. He concentrated on the steady heart beats thumping against his chest and for the first time since he heard the Alchemy Department's idea to torture and maim another generation of boys, a little calm settled inside of Jaskier.

“What kind of favor?” He knew the sort of “favors” mages asked for... it was never good.

“Clari Elvine portaled us in, she bought the vineyards off Geralt years ago, she's not insane like the mages you remember. I promised I'd let her touch my hands, feel the vibrations they all like so much.”

Yes, Jaskier remembered how mages reacted to Eskel's power... the few that were allowed in Kaer Morhen tried to find an excuse to get Eskel's hands on them, feel the pleasing tingles his aura provoked. If his magic had grown stronger over the centuries, surely that meant his aura changed... Jaskier didn't want to think what a mage might feel from him now. He closed his eyes, putting it out of his mind. If it got them here in a few hours instead of a few days, he was grateful, Eskel could make this Clari Elvine orgasm for all he cared at the moment.

Reading his mind, Eskel kissed the back of Jaskier's neck. “All mages know I'm well spoken for. She won't ask for anything... untoward.” He continued to kiss Jaskier's neck, Lambert's hand sliding down to his hip, holding Jaskier tight between them. “Go to sleep. Early morning. Geralt will call us as soon as he gets here.”

Reluctantly, Jaskier closed his eyes. He was still exhausted, but seeing them both together, touching them, it made him miss home even more. Before the Alchemy lecture, Jaskier had been fine at school, his homesickness carefully held at bay by the distraction of classes, friends, and calls to his Witchers and to his mother every other day. But now... _fuck_ , Jaskier never wanted to leave Corvo Bianco again. He wanted to drive home as fast as possible, burrow into their bed and never emerge. Though the world seemed evolved and new, it was still filled with people who tortured and maimed for their own gain. Jaskier no longer wanted to be a part of that world.

Holding tight to Lambert and Eskel, he managed to find sleep again, waiting now for his pack to be complete and for this new nightmare to end.

Geralt called early in the morning. Lambert pinned Jaskier down to the bed and reached across him, picking up his phone. He thumbed on the speaker. “What's your ETA? Jaskier needs more sleep.”

“Hour and change. He doesn't have to come with us.”

“Yes I do,” Jaskier growled. Lambert tried to push him into the pillow but he wiggled free from strong arms. “I'm the only one of us who has pull with the current Dean.” Dean Solla was “personally” overseeing the Academy's contacts with Eskel and Jaskier with regards to their collection. She wasn't officially, but she liked being in the loop. Music was a passion of hers, especially bardic tradition.

After Eskel first provided scans of a few lost ballads, she took Jaskier aside and whispered, “The Academy appreciates you sharing your family history. If you ever need anything from me—anything at all—don't hesitate to ask.” Well, Jaskier was going to fucking ask about this.

“Fine.” Geralt knew it was pointless arguing. They were both equally hard headed and it took him almost forty years to learn arguing didn't work with the first Jaskier, why would it work the second time around? “Get something to eat. And coffee. I'll meet you outside the Dean's office in ninety minutes. I made us an appointment.”

Eskel and Lambert didn't know better than to argue and tried to convince Jaskier to stay and sleep in. “We can handle it,” Lambert said. But it was a lost cause. Jaskier wiggled out of bed and got dressed, stomping towards the dining hall, two Witchers in his wake.

The display drew more than a few looks. Half the student body was gone for break but the other half had last exams to complete. Jaskier ignored the dozens of eyes that followed him through the canteen, first watching him, then shifting to the Witchers. Most people went their whole lives without seeing one Witcher, let alone two, and considering there were already rumors about Jaskier's living situation... There'd be no end to talk after this. And Lambert growling at a few students who got too close definitely did not help.

They stayed at his sides as he grabbed breakfast, including enough for them, and didn't question when Eskel paid. The food managed to chase away some of the queasiness in his limbs and Jaskier started to feel better. Maybe the Alchemical Sciences Department wasn't actually reviving Witchers. Maybe they only wanted to investigate the mutagens, see how they worked on a deeper level to enhance their understanding of human endurance...

As soon as he saw Geralt pacing outside the Dean's office—jeans sinfully tight, but clean, it looked like he'd shined his boots too, taking this very seriously then—the small center of calm Jaskier managed to wrangle melted. Panic rose in him again and Geralt wrapped his arms around Jaskier, pulling him in close. Burying his nose in the hair at Geralt's neck—he needed a cut soon—Jaskier let all the anger spill out of him. “They can't do this,” he hissed.

“We won't let them.”

The angry voices inside the Dean's office got louder, pulling Jaskier's attention away from Geralt. “You approved this project! You can't back out because some seven liberal arts student thinks it's dangerous!”

“I approved research only for the time being. How dare you announce a testing timeline without running it through the proper channels!” the Dean shouted back. At least she wasn't in on it. Jaskier didn't know if that was better or worse. “And that student happens to have more experience with Witchers than anyone on the Continent, I'll take his opinion into consideration before I approve anything more from your department regarding this project.”

“Experience with Witchers? Because he has a collection of written works on Witchers? That's idiotic! You're letting your thirst to expand your favorite department cloud your judgment!”

“I've heard enough from you.” The Dean continued speaking, but much lower now, Jaskier couldn't make out her words. He bet the others could.

Geralt squeezed him close one last time before letting him go. “They're coming to get us.” They all straightened up, falling into their “professional” facade, the one they had to use on contracts. They had to be what the world expected: stoic, professional, and terse. Not soft, warm and caring. Only Jaskier got to see that side of them.

The door opened and the Dean's exhausted secretary smiled at them, even if he was a little tired around the eyes. “Thank you for waiting. Dean Solla will see you now.”

They all crowded into the office and Jaskier tried not to sneer. The three students from the talk were seated behind the Alchemy professor, smug smiles on their faces as they watched him shout back at her. Dean Solla, a lovely half elf with bright blue eyes and moon pale hair greeted Jaskier with a nod, not her usual open smile. While he tried not to be a teacher's pet, she was very interested in the works of the first Jaskier, her mother was born shortly after Jaskier died (the first time) and she always loved his ballads. Jaskier remembered long scholarly talks with the other professors at Oxenfurt the first time he was here and the knowledgeable Dean sparked memories of such conversations. Jaskier genuinely liked the woman, and now she was tired and angry and broken down... and it was partly his fault.

“Thank you for coming,” she said. “I apologize for anything you might have overheard. I had to check with Dr. Marx, get his end of the story.” She pressed her lips into a tight line and turned to Geralt, Eskel, and Lambert. “As I understand it, the Alchemical Sciences Department wants to recreate the mutations that first produced Witchers. Jaskier seems to think that's inadvisable and I think I agree with him.”

“It is,” Jaskier said. “It's irresponsible, along with cruel, torturous—” Lambert's hand on his arm made him pull back. He wasn't the expert here, they were. They also weren't nineteen, swimming in a million hormones, standing next to the loves of their life, wanting nothing more than to touch them and make this nightmare end.

“Surly you understand, we cannot allow that to happen.” Geralt's voice was calm and even, but firm. “The process of making a Witcher—mutating a human—is torture. It flies in the face of all medical ethics. The loss of the mutation formulas was a gift to the Continent, no one shall ever suffer the way we did.” Geralt leveled his heavy gaze on Dr. Marx. “If you go ahead with these experiments, with or without the backing of the Academy, _we_ will stop you.”

Dr. Marx's mouth fell open. The three meatheads stood up and glared out at Geralt, like that made a difference. “Are you threatening me? From where I stand, the monsters of the world are growing more bold, and the Witchers more lazy.” His eyes flashed to Jaskier for the smallest hint of a second. “Did you hear about the rock trolls that attacked Brugge two months ago? Killed over two hundred people, half the city needs to be rebuilt. Where were the Witchers then? There is a clear need and if you won't fill it, we will.”

A muscle in Geralt's jaw jumped. Oh yes, he knew about Brugge. Two years ago, he told them the nearby troll population was getting out of control and the town council needed to invest in a way to placate them—trolls occasionally helped the local areas by maintaining the bridges they lived under, saving the city money. But if they felt taken advantage of by humanity, a rampage would surely follow, it was just a matter of time. Brugge ignored his suggestion and now they had two hundred dead citizens and a group of pissed off trolls.

“I did not come to debate my professional ethics, I came to debate yours. Please, enlighten me: what is your plan?” He made a large sweeping gesture with his hand, indicating to the doctor he had the floor.

Dr. Marx sputtered for a moment. He didn't expect the Witchers to come and listen, probably thought they'd threaten first. “Well, to give an overview: we've had great success in rats. The mutagens we've used so far increase their strength and stamina by two hundred percent with a ten percent fatality rate—much better than the seventy percent fatality of the original formulas. Information recovered from the School of the Crane was instrumental in reformulating the mutations—it's been done once, why not again?”

 _School of the Fucking Crane_. Geralt didn't want to touch that with a ten foot pole. The doctor continued.

“We hope to produce these results in monkeys next before moving on to human trials. It's an aggressive timeline, to be sure, but with the great need for trained monster hunters, we must proceed quickly and carefully.”

“Two things that rarely go together,” Geralt said. “Tell me, you said _trained_ monster hunters. Who will train them? Your project is focused on the mutations, that's only half a Witcher. Less, I'd say. We spent years building our bodies before they were mutated, then building them again after we were ripped apart. Where will the training come from?”

“The uh, the Redanian army volunteered to supply training.”

Lambert couldn't contain his snort of laughter. “You think we have army level training?” A sharp glare from Eskel quieted him down again. This was Geralt's show, he had the deepest ties to Oxenfurt, they were silent, intimidating back up.

Geralt nodded, pretending he saw the man's point. “Jaskier says you have human subjects lined up already. Who are they?”

A self satisfied grin spread across Dr. Marx's face. “These fine men have volunteered.” He stepped next to his students. “It is far off, so it will be part of their graduate project. They are all very aware of the risks and we're excited for the chance to create history, or recreate history, I suppose.”

Yellow eyes scanned over the three students and for the first time, Geralt's professional stoicism slipped. “Them? These three right here?” He had to point at the meatheads to make sure, because there was no way, no fucking way they were serious.

One of them—Jaskier didn't even know their names, and he had a class with two of the three—puffed out his chest. “We are more than ready to face these challenges. I myself have already trained in several disciplines, including boxing, fencing, broadsword and—”

“They're too old.” Geralt cut him off, his eyes back on Dr. Marx. “Your ten percent fatality rate will jump to one hundred percent. The mutations start as children, the body is better at healing at a younger age. You say you want to start in five years? They will all die painful, agonizing deaths the first moment you inject the mutagens.”

“Too old?” Dr. Marx floundered. “I know the stories about Witchers taking children, but surely—”

“They're not stories.” Geralt stepped back. “Eskel, how old were you when you entered Kaer Morhen?”

Eskel shrugged. “Three, maybe four? I don't remember much before passing through those gates.”

“Lambert? How old were you?”

“Eight,” Lambert said. “I was one of the oldest boys ever taken. Special circumstances.”

“I was four,” Geralt said, his eyes burning into Dr. Marx's. The good doctor's mouth hung open, gaping at the reality in front of him. “Most boys came as infants.” Geralt hung his head for a moment, sighing deeply. “You have no idea what a Witcher is, yet you're so keen to bring them back into the world. You'll kill your students to do it.”

Reliving the old memories—his mother stopping the cart, sending him for water, then suddenly she wasn't there, just Vesemir—drained Geralt and it took everything he had not to lean into Jaskier's warm, familiar smell and let it fill his consciousness.

“But, there is a precedent! School of the Cat took older students, and School of the Crane, they—”

“School of the Crane was created for a very specific purpose.” Geralt barely held the snarl from his voice, staring down the good doctor. “They rose after the Second Conjunction, designed to fight the beasts that poured into the sea and the monsters that polluted the air. They changed what little of the formula they were able to recover, and never produced a single Witcher on par with any of us. They didn't even last long enough to clean up those beasts, we had to. Our mutations were lost and they will stay lost.

“There will be no more Witchers,” he said, speaking to the Dean. “Whether you stop this project, or we stop it, it will not continue.”

“No,” Dean Solla said. “It will not.”

The meeting ended with a few more stuttered arguments from Dr. Marx, but Geralt had a counter for each one: “Sorcerers toy with mutations all the time—”

“Yes, immortals with immortal bodies built to last an eternity, they get bored.”

“Surely an eighteen year old is still physically robust enough to go through the mutation process, we need to have informed consent from an adult—”

“Lambert, what happened to the eighteen year old the Cats tried to mutate?”

“Back of his skull flew off.”

“Right, I wasn't sure if it was the back or the front...”

When Dr. Marx ran out of arguments, he and his students slumped out of the room. Geralt barely had the energy to thank the Dean for the meeting. As soon as they were in the hall, he wrapped an arm around Jaskier and Eskel, pulling Lambert close with a flick of his eyes.

Geralt didn't sleep well after that, none of them did. There was no way they'd all fit in the bed and Geralt insisted on taking the floor, tossing and turning all night as Jaskier watched, tears in his eyes. The next morning, the ride back to Corvo Bianco started out in silence. After about fifty miles, Geralt pulled off the road, his eyes distant as he stared through the windshield.

No one made a sound for a very long time. Finally, Geralt closed his eyes. “Eskel, I need you to drive.”

They switched spots and Lambert got in the front seat with Eskel, letting Geralt climb into the back with Jaskier. Though the wide bench seats gave them enough room, Geralt still looked squished as he lay his head in Jaskier's lap, eyes far away.

It was dark before he said another word. “Just when I think I'm over the mutations...”

Lambert was driving now, his arm across the back of the seat for Jaskier to reach out and touch whenever he needed. “That's the thing, big guy, we're never allowed to get over it. We have to remember to keep shit like this from ever happening again.”

That's right. After the Second Conjunction, they were safely retired, hidden from the world, talked of only as legends. When they heard rumors of sorcerers working on School of the Crane, they did nothing to stop it... they should have. But they had a second chance to stop it now.

By the time they got home, the fog had yet to lift from Geralt. They tried to cheer him up, Eskel cooked his favorite foods and Lambert let him win at pool, but nothing seemed to work. And worse still: Geralt's mood started to spread, Lambert and Eskel withdrawing day by day, all three of them lost in thought or memories, Jaskier wasn't sure.

After the cloud of reliving their traumas faded away, Geralt started focusing on all those he failed to save—never good. Lambert remembered the name of every child that died before he could get there. If he didn't know the kid's name, he asked the villagers, just to punish himself. Eskel did the same thing when it came to young lovers. He hunted mostly in the hills in the old days, sent off to rescue couples who went out at night for a little privacy and never returned... Geralt simply remembered them all.

This was not how Jaskier imagined his Belleteyn break going. More than once, he woke in the middle of the night to find one or two (or all three) missing from the bed. Padding down to the study, he found them working, pouring over charts and maps, reading reports of Bruxa attacks and specters haunting the same area unchecked for decades.

“When did it get this bad?” Geralt asked as Jaskier pulled them all to bed. “We only took one year off.”

“It was bad before that,” Lambert said. “There's too much for us to cover, no matter how thin we spread ourselves.”

Jaskier threw them all into the bed and managed to spread out across all three. That way, the next time they escaped, they'd have to take him along for the ride. “Maybe, we are still needed.” Eskel said.

“Save the maybes for tomorrow. Go to sleep.” Jaskier tried to keep his eyes open until he heard all of them snoring, but he was so exhausted caring for three of the most emotionally needy men on the Continent. It reminded him of the old days.

Jaskier sat on the upper balcony, watching morning training. Coën came to stay this winter and they had an even number. Well, an even number of proper Witchers; Witchers in training... that was just down to Ciri. He saw her on the other side of the courtyard, growling at Vesemir about being paired with the training dummy _again_.

“Coën said he'd help me with my sword work! He's not here every winter, I don't want to run out of time!” she growled.

“Hmm, sounds like someone wants to polish every sword in the castle. Is that what I heard?” Jaskier saw the knowing twinkle in Vesemir's eyes from the balcony. True, he'd gotten a little softer in his old age, but he did not make idle threats. Ciri better quit her whining or she was going to be covered in silver polish for the next two days.

The little girl—almost a young woman now, gracious when did that happen—turned away from Vesemir and started beating the ever loving shit out of the practice dummy. “Good girl!” Geralt shouted and almost got chinned by Lambert.

“Gettin' slow, Old Wolf,” he teased.

Jaskier listened to their competitive banter with half an ear. He wanted to finish his sketches. No one came out of Oxenfurt Academy without at least rudimentary drawing skills, and while Jaskier wouldn't count himself among the great painters of the era, he did alright, well enough to draw diagrams of the Witcher armor. He cornered Coën earlier that morning and demanded an in depth look at his gambeson, the poor Griffin took it quite differently than he meant it.

As he looked out on the training grounds below him, a sadness spread in Jaskier's heart. All the pain and torment his wolves went through to get their enviable bodies and lightning reflexes... as he watched Ciri, who had no mutations to speak of, she was every bit as talented as her father. Give her a few more years, and she'd be just as deadly. Sure, she couldn't _smell_ tracks, but she could damn well see them and was a better tracker than most royals Jaskier hunted with when he was younger. Why those wizards thought mutation was the only way to go, when other training was just as helpful in the long run, was a mystery to him.

“Fuck wizards,” Jaskier grumbled under his breath. Down in the courtyard, Lambert and Geralt smirked. He blew them a kiss and continued drawing. He finished his sketches for the moment (he made plans to look at Coën's armor more later) and was mostly doodling now, making an outline of the training ground and the loves of his life as they moved through it. He let himself imagine for a moment, Geralt with brown hair and green eyes, Lambert with beautiful chocolate orbs, and Eskel's surly light hazel gaze. He loved the Witchers he had, but oh what he wouldn't give to know the men they might have been.

Jaskier sat bolt upright in bed, chest heaving. “Paper!” he shouted. The three bodies pressed around him snapped to life.

“What's attacking?” Lambert growled, one eye still half closed, his hand curled around Jaskier to pull him out of harm's way.

“Paper!” Jaskier shouted again. He kneed Eskel to get him out of the way and almost tripped over Geralt trying to get out of the bed, there were downsides to a puppy pile, apparently. His hands scrambled to open drawers, throwing half empty bottle after half empty bottle of lube over his shoulder. “Paper and pencil! Where?”

A nudge at his shoulder made him turn. Geralt held a notebook out for him. As soon as Jaskier took it, Geralt fell back onto the bed, taking Eskel down with him. “This better be fucking worth it. I just fell asleep.”

Jaskier ignored them. He planned to apologize in the morning with coffee, croissants and blow jobs all around, but he couldn't get distracted now. Like whenever he had a good lyric in his head, he had to write it down before it escaped. The sketch book from his dream—memory, fucking whatever—appeared in his mind's eye. The training grounds at Kaer Morhen... the training grounds...

They leaned in close but didn't touch, knowing not to interrupt Jaskier's flares of creativity. He scribbled and sketched, closing his eyes every few moments to grab the last fading tendrils of the memory. With a sigh, he put the pencil down and slumped back on the bed, one finger pointing at the notebook. “Kaer Morhen.”

A chin leaned on his shoulder, hands around his waist, but Jaskier only had eyes for the drawing. A rough outline of the old courtyard with the training dummies and the racks of gear, a bench off to the side for water breaks. There were a few new additions as well... the outline of Eskel's garage armory, the walls of Corvo Bianco not as tall as the ones from the ancient keep. “Kaer Morhen,” he said again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am [round--robin](https://round--robin.tumblr.com) on tumblr.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Vesemir told me once: it's not a Witcher's job to kill all monsters. If we set out to eradicate every last harpy, or werewolf, or necrophage, how long until the men of the world set us after their mortal enemies?” Geralt frowned, he knew better than them all what happened when a king regarded a Witcher as an assassin more than a monster slayer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is kind of a transition, moving pieces around the board... we'll also get a glimpse at what the boys have been up to at Corvo Bianco.
> 
> Thank you to my beta what_about_the_fish, you were so helpful in getting this story together. Hope everyone enjoys.

As far as hair-brained ideas went, this was one for the ages. Turning Corvo Bianco into a training school for Witchers, another Kaer Morhen without the horrors and the abuse, taking on battered children who no one else wanted... Geralt didn't think he was ready to be a teacher, not again. Ciri was a special case, his interest in training her was to keep her alive, keep his daughter safe. Handing him strangers... he didn't know if he'd see the potential in them like he saw in Ciri.

But they discussed it and this was the only course of action. Long nights while Jaskier slept between them (because if they left the bed, he'd wake and follow them) talking too low for him to hear, they planned.

“You know this means they'll try again,” Eskel said. “We've stopped it for now, but how long until Oxenfurt or Redania, or fucking Nilfgaard wants Witchers again? We might not have Jaskier in the right places to tip us off next time.”

Lambert chuckled and ran a hand through Jaskier's hair. He shifted in his sleep, rolling closer to the soft touches. “Could send him in as a spy, he's got all the training.”

“There's too much out there, we're not enough,” Eskel said, ignoring Lambert. Though Lambert and Jaskier were snuggled in between them like usual, he only had eyes for Geralt. Between the two of them, they were the most skilled Witchers Kaer Morhen ever produced. Lambert was very adept, but he didn't have Eskel's knowledge of magic, or Geralt's iron resilience, he admitted as much, mostly when he was drunk. “It took us forever to clean up after the Second Conjunction—Crane School aside—and when Third Conjunction hit... we were a band aid, Geralt, patching holes as they sprung up,” Eskel said.

“Isn't that all we ever did?” Geralt whispered. “Destroy a ghoul nest, find another two battlefields over. We've been playing catch up for over eight hundred years—I'm not saying no, I'm open to training others because fuck knows we're the only ones who will do it the right way. But will it ever be enough?”

Eskel sighed, running his nose up the back of Lambert's neck for a moment, thinking. “Vesemir told me once: it's not a Witcher's job to kill all monsters. If we set out to eradicate every last harpy, or werewolf, or necrophage, how long until the men of the world set us after their _mortal_ enemies?” Geralt frowned, he knew better than them all what happened when a king regarded a Witcher as an assassin more than a monster slayer.

“We don't need to cleanse the world, that isn't our purpose. We assure balance between predator and prey, hunter and hunted. We kill enough drowners so they don't overwhelm the shores, but humans still have caution when they enter the sea. We can't make every human safe, but we don't have to, we just have to create balance.” He ran his fingers up Geralt's arm, raising goosebumps with the tingling touch. “The world hasn't had balance for a very long time. I think it's time we change that.”

There were more discussions, more back and forth about whether they were equipped to even do this—training one child was easy, training more than one not so much—but they all knew it was going to happen. Corvo Bianco would be the new Kaer Morhen, a little warmer, a little smaller, but kitted out to train just as the old castle was.

Jaskier headed back for summer/autumn term at Oxenfurt while they were in the middle of planning. He grumbled and groaned about leaving. “Are you going to rebuild the house all by yourselves?” he asked.

“Yes, I've done it before, I can do it again. Now you need to focus on your classes. Put all this Witcher nonsense out of your mind,” Geralt said with a sigh as they dropped him off on campus. “Let us worry about that.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Witcher nonsense has been my bread and butter for almost seven hundred years. You'll forgive me if I find it hard to let go.” He kissed them all one last time. They didn't need to drop him off but he definitely appreciated it. “Good luck with the renovations. I'm sure I'll be pleasantly surprised next break.” After all the drama with the Alchemy Department, he intended to keep his head down this term, maybe focus on composing.

Eskel handled the legal side of things. Geralt didn't have the patience for politicking anymore, and Lambert might murder someone, so it fell to Eskel, still technically the Headmaster of the School of the Wolf. So while Eskel read every law book written in the last hundred years to try and find a way to _legally_ gather children to train, Geralt prepared the only way he knew how: he renovated.

Over the years, he changed Corvo Bianco so much. An estate that started with one bedroom on the ground floor, a warm living room with a decent hearth, no indoor plumbing, and a half finished second bedroom upstairs, now sported: five bathrooms, four bedrooms, an expanded kitchen and dining area, spacious living room, a library, and a bathhouse out back. If there was one thing Geralt knew how to do, it was work on his home.

All the years he spent turning Corvo Bianco into a home, then into a keep (too many curious eyes after they came out of retirement, the walls were necessary) he never imagined fortifying it even more. While Kaer Morhen needed its walls because it was a fucking castle that had to be defended, Corvo Bianco needed walls for training.

The first day he looked up contractors was... difficult. Geralt never required outside help short of a book on building codes so he didn't have to tear down the garage he just built (wouldn't make that mistake a second time). Gille and Sons seemed promising, they had experience restoring castles in the more history rich areas of Toussaint, and since Geralt was essentially working on a castle wall...

Once they got over the shock of an _actual_ Witcher _actually_ calling them, the company was more than receptive. Gille and Sons turned out to be Gille's daughter, Gillian. “Gille and Sons sounds better than Gille, Daughter and Sons. My brothers work in our advertising wing,” she explained.

“Mmm,” Geralt considered for a moment. “How about Gille and Family?”

The sturdy woman smiled. Wide shoulders, rough hands, the stub of a pencil permanently behind her ear, she looked like all good contractors should. “I'll bring that up at the next staff meeting.”

While Geralt knew he couldn't build a real outer curtain wall—the terrain wasn't right, Corvo Bianco was already on top of a hill, the new wall would be too far out for their needs—she suggested a facsimile inner curtain. Geralt provided her with sketches of the old obstacle course around Kaer Morhen's walls. That's what he called it—an obstacle course. Not a series of pit traps, broken ladders and jumps designed to keep young Witchers on their toes... They had more than enough room for a new inner wall and a training space.

After getting the astronomical estimate (which Geralt could more than afford, but still, he remembered when money went farther) the work began. Soon enough, the courtyard of Corvo Bianco would resemble Kaer Morhen, or as close as Geralt could get it.

While he worried about the renovations and figuring out where they'd train and house these prospective new Witchers, Eskel was on the legal side of things. Geralt wouldn't trade their roles for the world, but he saw how it wore on Eskel. The business of government was thankless and dirty, but it had to be done.

As it turned out, many governments were interested in having Witchers back in circulation—their own _personal_ Witchers. It took Eskel a week of hollering at every Premier, First Minister, and General on the Continent to convince them: if they wanted Witchers, the vow of neutrality had to stand. “We will not serve one nation over another,” Eskel growled on the conference call. It was strange, yelling at a phone speaker instead of down a table filled with pompous nobles, but the humans had exactly the same arguments. If Eskel wanted children from their lands, surly they'd feel loyalty to their homes? Always missing the point, fucking humans...

He finally shouted down the Prime Minister of Temeria, closing the subject forever. “If you want private Witcher armies, you make them yourself. But heed my words: if we find anyone is mutating children again, the School of the Wolf will burn you to the ground and see if the next government listens. We have walked this world longer than you can imagine, I have seen kings, emperors, governors and presidents fall. What does a mountain care of the ways of men? You think you're the one who will stand the test of time? Come back to me when you hit your eighth centennial.”

Silence crackled down the line. Then, a small voice, “We have no intention of creating our own Witcher programs. The vow of neutrality will stand.”

“Good,” Eskel said. “Now, can we get down to business?”

Even Eskel's level head and firm shoulders could only stand so much. Every six weeks or so, he took off for a hunt. He never went far, sometimes going to see Jaskier and destroying a den of owlbears on his way back. Though Eskel hid his emotions well, they tended to explode rather spectacularly when he finally had enough. Lambert came in one night with a news article about seismic activity in the Mahakam mountains: suspected collapse in the old mines. “Isn't Eskel moving through there?” Geralt didn't reply and Lambert rolled his eyes. “Here's hoping he doesn't bring the whole mountain down on his head.”

Geralt wasn't used to watching others work on his house. The contractors were more than professional and capable, but he had to find new projects to keep himself away, prevent hovering. Between welding new weapons racks to replace the old rusted ones, and expanding the garage just in case (Gillian gave him an estimate, but this he could definitely do on his own) he managed to stay out of their way most of the time. But sometimes, he liked to watch the work, watch _his_ Kaer Morhen take shape. Geralt wasn't there when the first was built, some things were before his time, and having a hand in the training of new Witchers stirred long dormant feelings in his heart... his feelings for Ciri, watching her skill develop and grow.

Sitting on a bench he probably needed to move, Geralt sipped some cool water in the warm sun, keeping a pitcher for the workers as well. Lambert got home the night before and was still catching up on sleep. Geralt was happy to see him wearing clothes as he walked across the courtyard to join him, actually remembering they had people around.

Lambert didn't sit, but knelt one knee on the bench next to him, close enough to feel but not touch. They didn't like showing off in front of humans. “When's Eskel due back?” Lambert asked, rubbing a hand across his sleepy face.

“Later today. Why?”

Lambert shrugged. “Few weeks since we've all been back at the same time. And Eskel's been run ragged by all this training camp shit. Blowing up a few mountain ranges can't satisfy him completely.”

Geralt smirked and gazed at Lambert out of the corner of his eye. A similar smile looked back at him. “Bathhouse?” Geralt asked.

“Bathhouse.” Lambert nodded and went back towards the house to start on dinner. He was capable in the kitchen, more so than Geralt, less than Eskel or Jaskier, and they needed to make sure Eskel had nothing to worry about tonight. Carrying the weight of the Kaer Morhen revival on his shoulders for months, blowing up a nest of harpies or causing an avalanche or two wasn't going to get rid of Eskel's tension, not entirely.

A few hours before sunset, Geralt heard the engine of Eskel's truck turning onto the road that led up their hill and started clearing out the workers for the day. They were packed up and gone by the time Eskel drove through the gates. Geralt closed them behind him and went to meet Eskel as he climbed out of his truck, mostly clean except for sweat and a little road dirty, so he hadn't been hunting since at least yesterday. Most of the tension was gone from his shoulders, but a little remained around his eyes, and it would only get worse as soon as he had to talk to government ministers again.

“Welcome home.” Geralt moved in for a kiss, drinking in Eskel's scent after their time apart. They might have gone months away from each other in the past, but now that he was used to having Eskel's scent on his skin every waking moment, Geralt was especially despondent when it was gone. Eskel leaned into the kiss, letting Geralt lick inside his mouth, across his tongue, nibbling his lips. A few days apart was really too much. “Lambert's making food, you should eat,” Geralt whispered, their lips still touching.

A tired smile pulled at the corner of his lips. “If you wanted to kill me, there are easier ways than poison.”

“If we wanted to poison you, I would cook.” Geralt looped an arm around his hips and hauled him into the house. Eskel tried to go for the nearest bathroom to clean up but Geralt steered him away. “Food first, then bathhouse. We'll have a good night now that we're all home.”

Eskel inhaled the meal Lambert made—nothing fancy, chicken and alfredo with garlic bread—and went from surly and tired from the road, to warm and snugly. His fingers traced up the inside of Geralt's thigh and he snatched kiss after kiss from Lambert. “It is good to be home.”

“Good to have you home.” Geralt nibbled on the back of his neck while Lambert pressed kisses all up the side of his face. Jaskier was the first to do it years ago—the rest of them too afraid to bring attention to the thing Eskel did not want to discuss—and when they saw how Eskel melted under the soft touches, Geralt and Lambert started as well. Little worshipful licks along his scars, dragging their tongues from his hairline down to his lips and finishing with a kiss, drinking in his scent on the way down. Geralt smelled like the snow on the high mountain, Eskel like the woods surrounding their old keep, pushed together, they smelled like home. Enough time had passed that even Lambert appreciated the small reminder of their shared past.

“Come on.” Lambert hooked Eskel's belt loops and pulled him to his feet, out of Geralt's arms. “I cooked, pretty boy will clean up. Let's wait in the bathhouse.”

Eskel groaned, half resisting as Lambert pulled him towards the back door. “I've been driving for hours, I want you two in a bed. Soft under my back, not hard tile.”

Lambert's bottom lip jutted out into a pout he knew Eskel couldn't resist. “Exactly why a nice bath is good for you. It'll relax your tense muscles.” Strong hands kneaded down his back, finding and obliterating a few knots before settling on his ass.

Eskel couldn't help but groan. “Fine. I'll let you too fuck me like we're in some tawdry Novigrad bathhouse.”

“Hey!” Lambert put up a pretend objection while pushing Eskel towards the bathhouse door. “Don't slag off our bathhouse. We run the finest, cleanest establishment in all of Toussaint! Not a single streak of come stuck to the walls.”

“Not yet,” Geralt called. Stalking towards them with all the intimidating strut of the White Wolf, Geralt arched an eyebrow at Lambert, asking _why isn't he naked yet_?

“Come on.” Lambert tugged Eskel inside and grabbed for his belt.

Sleepy and pliant after dinner, Eskel tried to lean back, only to bump into Geralt's solid chest. “Ganging up on me?” he asked, but he let Lambert continue stripping him.

“Yes.” He turned Eskel around, pushing their lips together to kiss and to distract, leaving Lambert free to pull Eskel the rest of the way out of his clothes.

Once Eskel was bare, Lambert pulled him close, kissing and licking down his neck and chest, taking over for the moment while Geralt stripped, then passed him back and did the same. They continued passing Eskel between them for a few long moments—Geralt laving his earlobe, hands squeezing his ass as Lambert got some of their good towels out, then Lambert took over biting one nipple, then the other while Geralt warmed up the shower. Happy to have little to worry about, Eskel let it happen, let them pull him this way and that, walk him under the hot spray and drag large, solid hands over his body, half caressing, half massaging.

As Lambert's strong fingers worked his tired muscles, Eskel felt a wash cloth brush his skin, starting with his back and scrubbing up over his shoulders and arms. Head hanging, hair wet and covering his face, Eskel relaxed into the hot water of the shower, and the hot hands pawing at him. “And what do you intend to do with me once you've washed The Path away?” he asked.

Geralt's lips found his ear, teeth nipping and biting as he washed Eskel, cloth sliding between his cheeks. “Whatever you want. You need a night to relax, Eskel, let us help...”

“Want me to ride you?” Lambert asked, massaging another knot away. Eskel groaned at the pain, then the relief as the knot released. “Want me to suck you off while Geralt makes love to you? Kneel down and lick your hole once he's done with it.”

“Mmm, yes, that one.” Eskel peered over his shoulder and smirked at the wolfish smile across Lambert's face. “To start.”

Geralt ran the cloth between his cheeks a few more times, circling his hole, “Getting _all_ the road dirt off you,” before moving aside and letting Lambert through.

Kneeling on the tile of the bathhouse was no picnic, but Lambert had done it enough times. With Eskel leaning against Geralt's chest, he tipped forward, presenting his ass. “Do me one better, Geralt.” Geralt's hand grabbed under Eskel's thigh, lifting it and spreading him open, giving Lambert full access.

Standing on one foot on slippery tile, Eskel wrapped his arms around Geralt, holding on for what felt like dear life. “Lambert...” he cautioned.

But Lambert wasn't listening. He knew Geralt would never drop Eskel, and didn't feel at all guilty when he pressed his tongue straight in, making Eskel jump. A few more long licks across his perineum and Eskel got used to the fluttering touch. His fingers dug into Geralt's biceps, head falling onto his shoulder as Lambert went to town. He lapped along Eskel's cleft, thumbs spreading him open somehow wider.

“I will worship your ass all night,” he whispered into Eskel's skin, sending tingling vibrations straight up his cock. “Just say the word.” Lambert's tongue pressed inside his hole and Eskel groaned. “Got a toy from Jaskier, said I could use it with you. I can plug you full and ride you, anything you want.” Another lick across his hole and up to the top of his cleft. “Want Geralt to fuck you while I suck your cock? Anything you want, just tell me what you need...”

The dirty chatter between maddening licks across his hole broke Eskel apart faster than he thought possible. With his cock brushing against Geralt's unfairly toned abs, Eskel groaned, hips stuttering a little uselessly, held as he was, he couldn't really thrust. But, oh, it was so good. Coming across Geralt with Lambert's tongue licking his hole... Eskel wanted to pass out from pleasure. But Geralt held him firm until he finished, then lowered his leg back to the ground, washing him again.

They didn't leave the shower yet. Geralt turned him around and passed him off to Lambert, who shampooed his hair while whispering dirty fantasies into his ear. “I can't wait until Jaskier is home. You remember when he let Geralt fuck me while he watched? We can do that again, spear me open on that monster of yours, Geralt in my mouth, oh, he'd be so happy. Can you imagine his eyes? His smell?”

With the tingling sprouting along his scalp, Eskel was already moaning when Geralt's hand closed around his cock. That firm chest, as wide as his own, pressed to his back, arms wrapped around his hips and a hand circling his cock, Eskel wanted to buck and writhe, but was pinned between them, Lambert whispering filthy suggestions while Geralt seemed determined to carry them out. Lube appeared from somewhere and two fingers pressed in.

“Shush, relax,” Geralt whispered. Lambert washed the shampoo from his hair and basked in the hot water, suds running over them all, making them slick. Slippery skin slid all over him and Eskel came again, clenching around Geralt's fingers, come spraying over Lambert this time.

Geralt cleaned them off again and turned off the shower. They stood in the steamy heat of the bathhouse, Eskel held between them, Geralt holding him up while Lambert nuzzled his neck, mingling their scents together. Hot breath against his ear made him shiver. “What do you want next? You can have anything.”

“How about a soak?”

Lambert moved Eskel into Geralt's arms and walked over to the large jacuzzi tub. It took a moment to fill, which Geralt spent running his hands all over Eskel, fingers massaging scarred skin. All their scars looked the same after so long: Geralt had a set of claws on the right side of his chest, Eskel the left; Lambert had a puckered arrow wound at the base of his shoulder blade, Geralt had one near his heart. Time healed all wounds, but theirs were worn on their skin, a visible sign of their sacrifice. They revisited those wounds time and time again, in nightmares, in stories to an enraptured public, and now they'd revisit them as they tried to convince a new set of boys to put their bodies on the line for a Continent that desperately needed them, but didn't want them. Geralt still didn't know how he felt about this plan.

Reading his mind, Eskel swiped a hand through his wet hair, pushing their foreheads together. “It won't be the same,” he whispered. “No mages, no laboratory, no trials...”

Geralt nodded. “I know. Old wounds...”

“Hey.” Tub still filling, Lambert wrapped an arm around them, hugging them to his chest, thumb lightly brushing Eskel's waist, soft and pleasing. “No work talk tonight means no Path and no School of the Wolf part two. Now get in the tub you old bastards.”

With a playful nip to Lambert's neck, Geralt pushed Eskel into the large tub, giving him the middle seat with its padded head rest and sat on the stone ledge behind. He let his legs drop over Eskel's shoulders, holding him down. Sometimes, Eskel needed to be _forced_ to relax. Though they'd already washed his hair, Geralt cast his eyes to the soaps and bath products Jaskier left behind. At this point, he wasn't sure what their house had more of: bottles of lube, or bottles of Jaskier's favorite bath products. He picked up a bottle of lavender body wash and squirted some in his palm, rubbing it across Eskel's shoulders. Body wash made for a half decent bath massage oil and Geralt worked the smell of their lark into Eskel's skin, bringing back a little of their only missing piece.

The tub filled and Lambert climbed in, settling between Eskel's legs. His hands brushed softly up the inside of his thighs under the water, making their way towards his cock. Predictable, it stirred under his skilled hands and Eskel leaned his head back into Geralt's lap. Strong hands rubbing his shoulders, firm hand on his cock driving him wild... maybe he needed this more than he wanted to admit.

After Geralt rinsed off the soap, he pulled Eskel into his lap. Lambert followed, lips latching around the head of his cock as Geralt rooted around for _another_ bottle. He dragged the cool plastic up Eskel's arm. “Yes?” he asked.

Eskel nodded, his eyes falling closed. “Yes.”

A little more arranging—Eskel did not help, he was boneless against Geralt's chest, cock the hardest thing about him right now—and Geralt managed to press two fingers into Eskel before slicking his cock. Widening his legs, he eased Eskel down, grunting at his weight but not complaining, that would come later after they were done and settled in bed, grumbling about Geralt's aches multiplying as he chased Eskel's away. But for now, Geralt moved Eskel's thick body onto his lap, pressing in with the head of his cock.

Grabbing the safety bar they installed for Jaskier, Eskel eased himself down until he felt Geralt's hot thighs against the back of his. Lambert fell back into place, taking him deep, tongue lashing his shaft as his throat gripped around the head. Thrusting in the slippery tub wasn't the easiest, so Geralt just sat, arms wrapped around Eskel, cock twitching inside of him while Lambert swallowed him down.

He shifted a little and managed to brush Eskel's prostate, which brought an end to it all. “Ah, fuck,” Eskel panted, hips stuttering as he poured down Lambert's throat. Part of him felt a little bad for not reciprocating—with Geralt hard inside of him and Lambert a constant erection with a body attached—Eskel longed to make them feel as good as they made him feel. But he knew they'd push him away if he tried, united in their desire to see him relax after The Path and the legal hell he'd been swimming through. They'd take care of each other later, growling kisses and bites in bed when Eskel was already spent, watching them with sleepy eyes.

They lounged in the tub a little longer and Eskel convinced Geralt to take Lambert over the side while he watched. It was just as growling and snarling as he imagined, Geralt's teeth sucking a bright red love bite into the back of Lambert's neck, Lambert gripping Geralt's hips hard enough to bruise. It was always a wonder to watch them take their rougher urges out on each other.

Clean, spent and smelling like their lark, they all dried off and went back into the house, not a stitch between them. Geralt would gather their clothes for the laundry in the morning, for now, they needed to continue touching and brushing against bare skin, like the old days in the Kaer Morhen hot springs.

Crushed together in bed, Eskel's body started to stir again. He was tired, but too long on the road, too many hands against his skin... he didn't know what set it off but suddenly, he wanted more. He rolled over, presenting his ass for Geralt and got a lust-filled growl in return, teeth sinking into the meat of one cheek. Lambert nudged him until he was on his side, allowing Geralt to spoon up behind him and thrust in at the exact time Lambert's hot mouth settled over him once again. Caught between them both, Eskel let himself drift away.

Life was about to get hard again, not in the same way, but they shut themselves away for a reason. People still stared at their eyes, their scars, and now they'd invite more scrutiny by taking in children to train... It was necessary. Despite evidence to the contrary, they wouldn't live forever, but monsters were still out there. They needed to pass their knowledge on, it was the right thing to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sort of looked up construction things, like how much it would cost to restore an actual castle wall, and you know what I discovered? There are worse things than mommy blogs: rich bro blogs who are too good to just buy a fancy car, no, they have to buy a fucking castle... Sufficed to say, I left that bit vague,
> 
> I am [round--robin](https://round--robin.tumblr.com) on tumblr.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier's second term at Oxenfurt was... disappointing. He got into the history class he wanted: An Overview of the Northern Wars. History was written by the winners, but Jaskier was fucking there, running intelligence back and forth, not to mention all the ballads and stories he wrote about the changing landscape of the world that followed conflict. He wasn't taking the class for an easy grade, he wanted to see how much the victors had changed the books.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the beginning seems a little redundant, that's because this is Jaskier's side of things while Geralt is working on Corvo Bianco. They were one chapter before, but it got too long and I split it up, so please excuse any small repetition.
> 
> Thank you once again to my betal, what_about_the_fish, and now to RawrkinJD, who gave me musical suggestions for this chapter. I also made up some "bard of old" for Jaskier to discuss. If you don't recignize a character's name, I probably made them up.
> 
> Small warning: Jaskier's not having the best time. I wouldn't say he's depressed, but if seeing him in a low mood might make anyone feel sad right now, maybe wait a bit to read. Thank you to everyone who's been reading so far, I hope you enjoy <3

The idea of turning the house into a training camp—training, not mutating, they trained Ciri without those blasted mutations and they could do it again—and the reality were two very different things. Geralt had a handle on the renovation side of things, “We need dorm space, I won't have more than ten kids at a time. Eskel, Jaskier, you don't have your own rooms anymore. We can share two bedrooms between the four of us.” He threw himself into building and drawing up floor plans, even going as far as to hire a contractor—several, actually. Geralt never let anyone touch his house; he was serious about doing this right.

But when it came to the legal side of things, they were all awash in a sea of unfamiliar laws and governments that hadn't existed a hundred years ago, let alone eight hundred, and no one used the Law of Surprise anymore. It fell to Eskel's level head to wade through all those requirements, to figure out if they could actually do what they wanted in the first place. If the Continent needed Witchers, fine, then the last living Witchers should be the ones to provide. Just like in the old days, when kings sent their men to deal with monsters, they got dead men. Pay a Witcher and the problem got taken care of the right way.

Jaskier tried not to meddle too much. This really wasn't his area—planning, getting permits, having long tense conversations with the Premiership of Toussaint about property taxes—besides, he had his own set of worries.

His second term at Oxenfurt was... disappointing. He got into the history class he wanted: An Overview of the Northern Wars. History was written by the winners, but Jaskier was fucking there, running intelligence back and forth, not to mention all the ballads and stories he wrote about the changing landscape of the world that followed conflict. He wasn't taking the class for an easy grade, he wanted to see how much the victors had changed the books.

Jaskier did not like what he saw. He expected a few half lies about “brave warriors on both sides,” ignoring the fact that one side wanted to kill all non-humans, and the other side merely hated them, but “not overtly genocidal” wasn't the best argument for someone's position.

He took to arguing with his homework, Essi casting him strange looks the whole time. “It's been seven hundred years of the telephone game,” she said. “They're going to get things wrong.”

“But there are primary sources available to correct the record! Several!” Putting aside Geralt, Lambert and Eskel, Yennefer was mixed up in the war back then as well, she knew what happened. Probably a few higher vampires lurking through the shadows of history. “Yet the best they can do for a fucking text book is secondary sources. Or tertiary! The second cousin of a bloke who might have fought in the Temerian army!” Yes, a lot of primary sources from that era were lost in the tumult of war, but not all.

It wasn't just history, his core classes were starting to present a bit of a problem as well—mainly music and poetry. His music professor for the term, Ulen Gray, loved Jaskier's writing at first. “Love ballads are making a resurgence, and you write of it so beautifully—a soul deeply in love with the world.” But as soon as he heard Jaskier settling into a more “folksy style,” as he called it, he started pushing back. “While the seven liberal arts students are encouraged to explore all genres of music and find what speaks to them, folk is, well... it's rather informal. You're here for a _formal_ musical education, Jaskier. You're well trained in classical instruments, there are plenty of modern lute pieces you could use as inspiration...”

In his past life, Jaskier knew he was a bit of a music snob, his poetry was on the cutting edge, he sang of Witchers and sorceresses while half of Oxenfurt still sang of battles. And really, there were only so many times you could please a crowd with stories of blood spatter, but “berries tart, lilac sweet” got tears every time. Now, he found his ear more drawn to the interesting noises one could pull from seemingly simple instruments, _unacademic_ instruments. How a guitar went from sweet and melodic to biting and quick with a simple change in strumming. He liked the sounds of so called _simple_ folk music and older rock, liked to bend it into new shapes, as the deep, evocative lyrics pulled old memories and feelings from his heart, mixing them with his new ones. Add a good beat of a drum under a guitar and Jaskier could make the mountains shake with his voice, just like he used to.

Oxenfurt just wasn't ready to acknowledge the genre making the leap into academic discourse. So he played the lute in his classes and an old acoustic guitar in his dorm room, listening to Frank Turner and Johnny Cash alongside Mozart, blending the classical and the modern folk around more rockabilly sounds. Geralt found the guitar in a pawn shop and bought it for him as a Belleteyn present, it was one of the few things that helped Jaskier get over the creative slump Oxenfurt unintentionally pushed him into.

Without music professors who wanted to guide his work, and without the inspiration of Geralt, The Path, and their adventures, Jaskier found himself creatively adrift. The work he produced was technically good, but not very imaginative, drawing on his old memories and sounding like updated versions of his old ballads. Devil in the Wood instead of Toss a Coin. Poison Love instead of Her Sweet Kiss. Like a copy of a copy, he wrote what his teachers asked him to write, but not what he wanted to sing of... and he still wasn't sure what that was to begin with.

His poetry classes were the worst. Several other poems were misattributed to Valdo Marx, not just Jaskier's but one of Essi's ballads, and a composition from Sigwaerd of Allon. Sigwaerd was two hundred years dead when Jaskier was born, how one of his poems ended up in Valdo's catalog was a mystery for the ages.

“This man never touched a cock in his life, and they think he's writing ballads about longshoremen and their eyes like the sea? That's one of yours, Essi, why aren't you more upset?” Essi bit her lip and Jaskier stopped mid rant. It all hit him at once, not _this_ Essi, the last one... He hung his head and pressed a hand into his forehead, trying to dull the headache that started when he returned for his second term and hadn't gone away since. At first he put it down to all the construction at home, too many contractors starting too early in the morning, robbing him of his sleep, but it was something more.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered. “You're not her. Not like I'm still him...” Eskel told him not to hold himself to the life of an old man, but the more time he spent with both lives in his head, the more Jaskier knew he was that old man, always had been.

Essi sat on the bed next to him and draped her delicate arm over his shoulders. “It's alright. My family's had Essi's composition books for generations, and mum's still finding incorrect passages in new editions. It's—”

“Seven hundred years of the telephone game.” It's what Essi always told him, and she was right. He just needed to get over it... Of course, the dreams definitely didn't help matters. It might be easier to stop longing for a past life if it didn't keep playing in his head every night.

* * *

Jaskier stood with one hand on Roach, the other on the dagger Geralt handed him. Why Geralt decided to arm Jaskier (who was more likely to stab himself than an attacker) was anyone's guess. It was almost dark and they needed to camp, but Geralt heard too much noise in the trees for his liking and left to check for bandits. Gripping tight to Roach and the dagger, Jaskier waited for Geralt to return, jolting at every little noise.

The snap of a twig he would have passed off as an animal suddenly brought the specter of a bandit who got past Geralt, the whistle of the wind more sinister than he remembered... “You're fine,” Jaskier mumbled to himself. “Camped alone before, you can protect yourself without a big bad Witcher at your back...”

Something bigger than a twig snapped and Jaskier whirled around, yanking Roach's reins a little unkindly. She stamped her foot in irritation, but Jaskier's eyes focused on the sound coming from a darker than usual patch of forest. The branches parted and before Jaskier had a chance to scream, a flash of red caught his eye.

He deflated, almost collapsing next to Roach. “Fuck, Eskel, why are you sulking around? Trying to kill me?”

Eskel crossed the small clearing in two steps, wrapping Jaskier up in his embrace, strong arms soothing the tremors running through him. “No. Where is Geralt? Why did he leave you on your own?”

“Went to check for bandits.” He managed to secure the dagger at his belt before leaning into Eskel, letting hands card through his hair, chasing his fear away. “What are you doing here? Aren't you usually more towards the hill regions?”

“Mmm, heard rumors of Geralt passing close by. Wanted to see you both.” A finger under his chin tipped Jaskier's gaze up, soft gold eyes looking him over. “You look thin, bad season?”

“No, this is how I normally look. Vesemir fattens me up during winter too, just like he does for you lot.” Jaskier opened his mouth and sucked Eskel's thumb in, laving it with his tongue and pulling a deep moan from Eskel's chest. He'd gotten over his aversion to possible dirt (or other) on a Witcher's hands years ago. Eskel was here, he needed to feel him, touch him.

The trees rustled again but this time Jaskier stayed put. “I don't know what smells stronger,” Geralt grumbled. “Eskel's lust or yours.” Geralt stepped around behind him, pinning Jaskier between him and Eskel. Though they traveled together, saw each other all day long, Geralt still leaned down to slide his nose up Jaskier's neck, inhaling the combined scents of him and Eskel—woody musk and lavender, the perfect mixture.

Eskel couldn't stay long, he just wanted to see them, touch them before the long months between them and winter drove him mad. They'd part in the morning. Jaskier suggested some athletic activity, but Eskel and Geralt shot him down. “I know how long it's been since we've bathed, I won't have you like that,” Geralt said, ignoring Jaskier's pout.

The Witchers set up camp while Jaskier apologized to Roach, feeding her a few flowers he picked earlier. He meant to weave them into Geralt's hair, but Roach deserved them more right now. Fire set, dinner cooking, Eskel pulled Jaskier over, sitting him between them.

They didn't let go of their bard all night, one Witcher always had a hand on him; rubbing down his back, massaging his neck, caressing the inside of his thigh... Jaskier missed the touch of them all. _Six more months_ , he told himself. When dinner was finished, Jaskier wasn't tired, but he dragged them to the bedrolls anyway, pulling their armor off piece by piece. “Jaskier—” Geralt tried to stop him.

“Oh, shut up and let me.” He stripped them bare and lay between them, heated skin surrounding him, one hard cock brushing his, the other settled nicely in the cleft of his ass. They wouldn't fuck him tonight, Jaskier didn't even try to tempt them, he just moaned and wiggled, touching as much scarred skin as possible, lips caressing Eskel's face while his hand gripped Geralt's hip behind him.

The heat between them built slowly, Jaskier barely felt his orgasm approaching until it was upon him. Arching back into Geralt, he heard the lewd slurping of Eskel's lips cleaning the seed from their hands. They followed soon after, drenching Jaskier in come. He was happy to fall asleep like that—smelling like Witcher, so claimed that no one would dare touch him ever again—but Eskel grumbled and tidied them all up.

“I wish we saw you more,” Jaskier mumbled, his face crushed into Eskel's chest as he fell asleep. They were stark naked in a forest that may or may not be infested with bandits, but with Geralt at his back, and Eskel guarding his front, Jaskier was the most protected man on the Continent.

“One day, maybe we'll all retire,” Eskel said, not meaning it at all. “Stranger things have happened.”

Words like this were often exchanged during winter, usually after a night of drinking Lambert's vile moonshine. “Oh yes, we'll retire some day, stranger things have happened... can't think of any right now...”

Jaskier enjoyed calling them on their bullshit, but tonight, in this forest so far away from Kaer Morhen, he let Eskel lie to them all. Because he was right, stranger things had happened with Witchers. Love, for instance.

The next time Jaskier went home for a break (he was finding more and more excuses to fly back to Corvo Bianco over long weekends, probably a bad sign) Lambert was still a day out, so Jaskier wasted no time recreating their meeting in the forest. With Geralt at his back, Eskel's chest under his cheek, he fell asleep, trying to capture a little of the peace he had at home, in _their_ home, the one they only dreamed of seven hundred years ago.

Jaskier sat in a tavern. He was on his way to meet Geralt, they were heading to Kaer Morhen early this year, the first snows were still a few weeks away but Jaskier needed a break from the world. Oxenfurt tempted him into a professorship again and he hated every moment of it. It wasn't the students (well, not just the students) the administrators and other professors were monstrous. Half of them wanted to collaborate on a project with him—because they fucking knew his name would grab attention—while the other half were pressing to get his composition books and _personal_ journals preserved in the library's collection.

Where did they get off asking that? He wasn't fucking dead yet. The composition books maybe, but personal journals? Pages filled with the smut and filth they got up to in the winter, plus love songs dripping with unwitcherly subjects like how Geralt allowed him to put flowers in his hair, or the way Lambert's skin tasted; he'd rather take a crossbow bolt to the balls than share _those_ journals. He gave them his sketchbooks just to shut them up and made sure the rest of his journals and compositions were safe at Kaer Morhen. His Witchers would outlive half the Continent, there were no better guardians of his memory and his life's work.

Speaking of Witchers... two yellow eyes watched him from the corner. Face tucked under a hood, Jaskier didn't know this Witcher. His shoulders were broad (like them all, must be something in the mutagens) but he didn't have the bulk of the School of the Wolf, light, lithe muscle, a bit more like Lambert, actually.

Jaskier lifted his chin and locked eyes with the hooded Witcher, gesturing towards him with the rim of his glass. _Drink?_ He ordered two fresh pints from the bar and when he returned to his table, the stranger sat there, waiting. “Hello,” Jaskier pushed one mug towards him. “My name is Jaskier, who might you be?”

There was a dramatic pause, then a hand the color of honey, warm and tan from the sunlight of the south, swept the hood back. Curly brown hair and two piercing eyes met him. “I'm Aiden. I believe we have a friend in common.”

“You'll have to be more specific.” Jaskier sipped his ale. It wasn't bad, wasn't good either, hardly the right drink for meeting a new Witcher with unknown motives, but it was all he had. “Are we talking School of the Wolf? Griffin? I know a Viper—he's a bastard—and I think I met a Bear once...”

A smile tugged at his cheek. “No Cats?”

Cats... Understanding flickered behind Jaskier's eyes and he leaned back to drink his ale, and put a little distance between them, though what good it might do he didn't know. “So we're talking about Lambert.” Witchers guarded their thoughts and emotions, but with a crease of Aiden's brow, a clawing fear took hold of Jaskier's heart. “He's alright, isn't he? Nothing's happened?”

“As far as I know, he's safe.” Aiden sat back a little, schooling his face back into a stoic mask. From what Jaskier heard of Cats, their emotions sat closer to the surface, sometimes bursting out. Perhaps Aiden didn't know how much he was giving away. “On his way to explode a few rivers before heading up for the winter. He and I travel together a few weeks out of each year.” Eyes flicked across Jaskier, moving over and over his face several times, searching... “He had a bracelet this year. A gift. From you.” The leather of his gloves creaked as Aiden gripped his tankard, eyes blazing at Jaskier. “I am _familiar_ with the customs of Kerack.”

“Ah, I see.” Jaskier gave Lambert that bracelet about five years ago now. He probably didn't want to wear it out on The Path for fear of damaging it—they were all like that, they treasured the gifts Jaskier brought them, even if they were easily replaceable—and if this was the first time Aiden saw it... “He didn't tell you about me, did he?”

“Huh,” he chuckled. “Yes and no. He told me Geralt's bard started wintering with the rest of the Wolves. I'm not a fool, I know what they get up to in the winter. The School of the Wolf was always more of a pack than the rest of us, I can't fault him for desiring their comfort.” While Aiden's voice was steady his eyes flicked over Jaskier's face, watching how the bard weighed his words. “But I know Geralt and Eskel, as well as they'll let me. I don't know you, yet he wears your favor openly. That's not the Lambert I know.”

Jaskier shrugged. “Are you sure? Ever try giving him something? The man I know treasures his few possessions, especially from a lover.” Jaskier held his words for a moment, while he didn't want to tell a stranger Lambert's personal business, Aiden wasn't a stranger, was he? “Eskel gave him a full color botany book two winters ago—beautiful thing, the plates are gorgeously detailed—he keeps it on a special shelf in his room with his other potion books. Won't let anyone else touch it, washes his hands before reading it. Geralt found a Zerrikanian dagger on a drowner job, it was still on the wrecked ship, water didn't get to it. Mother of pearl scabbard, curved blade, beautiful and deadly just like Lambert. Gave it to him for Yule. He takes care of that dagger almost as well as he does his swords.

“You know Lambert as well as I do, probably better. His heart is big enough for us all. He will carry any token of your love until the day he is gone from this world.” Jaskier leaned back and sipped his ale, leaving Aiden alone with his thoughts for the moment. When the distant glaze receded from his eyes, Jaskier rolled up his sleeve, showing the bracelet matching Lambert's. “I don't just have his heart, he has mine as well. I do not intend to damage it.”

They sat in silence, finishing their drinks. When Aiden's tankard was empty, Jaskier got up to get him a refill. The Cat waved it away. “No need. I got what I needed.”

“And? Did I pass the test?” The sparkle in his eye made Aiden smile. Good. Jaskier loved a smiling Witcher.

“I believe so.” The warmth drained out of Aiden's face, lips curling to bare his teeth, eyes suddenly sharp. “You _will_ be kind to his heart.”

“Yes, I will.” Jaskier heard the threat in those words.

Aiden nodded and left the tavern. Jaskier ordered a meal and plucked at his lute, earning a handful of coins, enough to keep him until he met up with Geralt. He had more earlier in the year, but a row of derelict houses came up for sale in Oxenfurt. With a little care, they'd turn a tidy profit and Jaskier sank a good amount of money into their renovation... it was going to be a lean winter for sure.

A few weeks later, when Lambert arrived at Kaer Morhen, he grabbed Jaskier and held him close, running his fingers and tongue all down his neck. Out of the corner of his eye, Jaskier saw a flash of silver hanging off the pommel of his sword. Another Witcher medallion... this one with a cat on it. So Aiden found his gift already.

Jaskier opened his eyes and groped for his phone. It rang a few times before a tired voice answered. “What's wrong, bard?” Lambert mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

He had to smile at that, when they were tired or drunk, they all called him bard. Jaskier never brought it up because he didn't want them to stop doing it. “I had a dream... about Aiden.” The small hiss of breath on the other end of the line told Jaskier all he needed to know. He asked anyway. “Do you still have his medallion?”

After a moment, “Yes. You called me at four in the morning for this?”

“Lambert...”

Hearing the sob in Jaskier's voice, Lambert sighed. “I don't take it out much, I don't want to damage it, Geralt doesn't have the right mold to make me another if anything happens to it. I can show you next time you're home.”

Jaskier nodded to himself, holding the phone tight to his ear, his one weak connection to his wolves. Yule break couldn't come quickly enough. “Thank you.”

“Geralt's home. Want me to wake him and we'll put on a show for you over speaker phone?”

Jaskier laughed through his tears. “No, I appreciate the offer. Good night, Lambert.”

“Good night, Buttercup.” Jaskier rolled his eyes and hung up the phone, still clutching it to his heart.

Sleep did not come, so he flipped through the pictures on his phone, photos Lambert sent of them all milling around the house, in bed, sword practice in the courtyard...

He looked through all of his pictures until the sun rose. Most were of Corvo Bianco and his Witchers, but his mother sent him family photos too. His little nieces and nephews were getting big, learning how to hunt with their full elven relatives. The youngest girl, Diana, holding a bow too big for her, the largest grin on her face... His mother knew something was wrong with him, but she hated to pry. “It's not them, is it?” she asked. “They're treating you well, yes?” She didn't ask to be rude, it wasn't a prejudice against Witchers, just the concern of a mother who wanted to make sure her child's partnership was solid. Jaskier's lack of convention didn't bother her, she only cared for his happiness.

He managed to keep the worst of his worries away from her, telling stories of their plans for Corvo Bianco. “Taking in problem youth and turning them around, that's a big responsibility,” she said. “I hope they're all up to it.”

“They are,” Jaskier told her. “They're the kindest people I've ever met. They care so very much—enough to open their old wounds to pass on their knowledge.” He just wished he was there with them.

Sliding his phone under his pillow, Jaskier closed his eyes and tried to fall asleep. He thought he wanted to go to Oxenfurt, but instead of the rich, stimulating cultural environment he remembered, he found orthodoxy. No one was willing to break the mold anymore. Twice now, Jaskier had been offered his heart's desire by Destiny, first his wolves back in his life, and then Oxenfurt. The second one hadn't worked out so well.

He closed his eyes and dreamed of a snowy castle in the mountains, the sound of swords clanging, voices laughing... now more than ever, that was where he wanted to be again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to drive Jaskier towards a more folk vibe, and from my personal experience in the art world, folk isn't considered "serious academic" work, or it wasn't until recently. I'm not trying to cast Oxenfurt as a villain here, but Jaskier is now on his second life time, it makes sense that he would be more flexible than they are and push against that structure.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the last few months, Geralt had rebuilt the entire courtyard wall to resemble the one at Kaer Morhen with it's obstacle course. Couldn't train new Witchers without the threat of running the walls. He built another bathroom on the second floor (bringing their total up to six, not including the bathhouse in the garden) and installed a connecting door between Lambert's room and Geralt's master bathroom. While Lambert wasn't thrilled that Geralt and Eskel could break in during their playtime, Jaskier didn't mind as much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a smut chapter. Because just as I'm not one to put a bathhouse in their back yard and not use it, I'm also not going to put a pool table in their front hall and just let it sit there.
> 
> Please enjoy, and once again, thank you to my beta what_about_the_fish for helping me get my head together on this story.

Three weeks later, Jaskier was in Geralt's arms. Jaskier wasn’t sappy enough to invest in any “lovers meet at the airport” fantasies, but it was good to see Geralt standing next to the Scout, waiting for him at the curb with open arms.

“There are contractors at home, Lambert's trying to get them to finish up before we get back so we don't have to be quiet. Eskel's making sure he doesn't go too far and scare them off for good,” Geralt said.

“Mmm, contractors?” Geralt tried to keep him up to date on the renovations. He more or less came home to an entirely new house every break, but he appreciated the effort. “What's happening now?”

In the last few months, Geralt had rebuilt the entire courtyard wall to resemble the one at Kaer Morhen with it's obstacle course. Couldn't train new Witchers without the threat of running the walls. He built another bathroom on the second floor (bringing their total up to six, not including the bathhouse in the garden) and installed a connecting door between Lambert's room and Geralt's master bathroom. While Lambert wasn't thrilled that Geralt and Eskel could break in during their playtime, Jaskier didn't mind as much. He was looking forward to taking Lambert in front of the others, tonight, if possible. Lambert just needed to get over his possessive nature when it came to Jaskier's attention.

There had been a few... incidents. It started small—hugs that lasted too long, gripped too tight, bruised when Jaskier didn't want that—then escalated quickly. Last break, he was lounging on the couch in the living room, Lambert across his chest, one hand stroking his hair, content as could be for the moment. Eskel was working in the kitchen, the dinner table now his office. “Jaskier!” he called and walked out with a folder in hand. “Do you have time to come down to city hall with me? I'm trying to get your name on the deed to the house and you need to sign the papers in front of a notary.” He rolled his eyes.

“Yes, no problem. We can pick up dinner on the way back.” Jaskier went to sit up but found himself stuck. Lambert didn't move. He wasn't asleep, his limp weight holding Jaskier down, he did it on purpose. Golden eyes met him and Lambert's hold on his body tightened. “Lambert,” Jaskier said, voice firm. “Let go.” He stopped scratching, stopped rubbing and touching. No stimulation, no reason for Lambert to hold. With a soft growl, he rolled off the couch onto the floor, glaring at Eskel before wandering off to see if Geralt wanted to spar.

The next night—Jaskier's last night before he had to go back to school—Lambert was blissful and nearly floating, Jaskier's half hard cock still in his ass. They were done fucking, come dripping from Lambert, but his sad eyes and needy little moans told Jaskier he needed more, so he slipped back inside and let Lambert keep him nice and warm for a bit. He still wanted them all to spend the night together, but Lambert was especially needy now that he was at school. Maybe Jaskier was a little needy too.

The softest knock on their door raised a growl from Lambert. Jaskier pulled out and rolled away. “Lambert, no. We promised we'd spend the night with the others.”

Lambert said nothing, suddenly compliant, following after Jaskier into the bigger bedroom. Even with Geralt and Eskel asking for his attention, Lambert pushed past his brothers to get as close to Jaskier as possible.

A few more shoving matches happened from time to time, always with Jaskier in the middle. He wasn't sure what to do about it yet. He also hated being away, but that was no excuse for Lambert to treat Jaskier like his only partner. Lambert never needed much punishment or correction, and he didn't test boundaries much. Perhaps all the away time was wearing on him, which meant it was wearing on the others as well, they were simply better at hiding it.

When they pulled up to Corvo Bianco, the large front gate was open, dirt and tire tracks making their way down the drive. But all the workers were gone from the courtyard and Jaskier smiled. Alone with his wolves, perfect. Geralt parked the Scout in the garage and ran out to shut the gates before helping Jaskier with his bags. He had quite a few this break, even though he wasn't switching rooms. Deep in the back of his mind, Jaskier thought it was better to clean his room at Oxenfurt out slowly, instead of having to do it all at once when he finally had enough. But he hadn't mentioned that to any of them, so he didn't mention it now.

“Got some bad news,” Geralt said as they walked into the front hall. Eskel appeared from the study and Lambert jumped down the stairs to crush against him. “We have to move the pool table. Eskel wants to turn the study into a proper library: no more books scattered around the house, they're all going to stay in one spot. We have to take out this wall.” He leaned against said wall, right next to the admittedly small study door. Jaskier didn't know how Eskel fit through that door most days, let alone how a house full of boys would cope with it.

“Oh, really?” Jaskier frowned, looking down at the green felt even as Lambert sniffed and kissed up his neck. He must smell horrible after being on a plane for five hours, but they never cared.

Jaskier had to admit, he was fond of the pool table. Not because he played pool or actually enjoyed the game, he more enjoyed watching them play pool. Specifically: he enjoyed watching Lambert trounce Geralt and Eskel. As the youngest of the three, it was healthy for Lambert to beat them in at least one thing—he'd never match Eskel's magic or Geralt's habit of falling ass first into wide renown—but fuck if he couldn't beat the other wolves at any game he set his eye on.

All the nights he watched Lambert lean over the side of that table, hip cocked, backside presented like a fucking gift as he wiped the floor with Geralt or Eskel, smug grin on that stupidly handsome face. Jaskier wanted to wipe that smirk off his face, make those lips wrap around his cock instead, but he did love watching Eskel and Geralt grumble about losing...

Fuck, he'd been on a plane and felt gross, but the need to take Lambert over the edge of the pool table that wouldn't be here for much longer was too great. Dropping his bags, Jaskier turned his gaze on Lambert and let out a low growl. Lambert leaned in and let him trail soft fingers over the dips of his collarbone and up his neck. “Strip.”

The buckle of his belt clinked against the floor before the others had time to react. “Uh, Jaskier.” Eskel's eyes didn't leave Lambert's sculpted torso as his shirt hit the ground, followed by boxer briefs. “Don't you want to take a moment to settle in? You had a long flight.”

Jaskier turned dark, focused eyes on Eskel, dragging his fingers down Eskel's chest even as Lambert pressed against his other side, waiting for his attention. “You don't have to play if you don't want to.” There was a bite to his voice Eskel and Geralt didn't usually hear. Eskel's throat bobbed as he swallowed, licking his lips at this new... development. Jaskier directing them was one thing, giving them orders was quite another.

Pushing up behind him, Geralt shoved his nose in Eskel's neck. “It's fine, we all need it. What do you want us to do?”

“Bring me lube and a towel, the softer the better. And get his studded cuff.” He sent them off with the flick of his eyes and turned his attention to Lambert, stroking down his neck and pushing him back against the edge of the table, one thigh spreading his open. “We don't have much time before they're back. Do you want them here? Simple yes or no.”

“Yes,” Lambert fucking purred. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, opening his long throat for Jaskier to stroke and touch. His cock leaked all over Jaskier's jeans but they had plenty of time to get to that, he needed that firm touch right now. Oxenfurt was too fucking far away.

“I want you to take us all.” Jaskier dropped his voice and pressed his lips against the side of Lambert's throat in a half kiss. The thrum of that slow heart against his lips vibrated through his whole body and a little more tension spooled away. “Can you do that? Yes or no.”

“Yes.”

“Good. You remember your safe word?” The things they did never went very far, a little light bondage Lambert could easily slip, some creative positions. Not once in all their past years together did Lambert ever need Jaskier to stop—he never wanted to be the kind of man who pushed too hard, even by accident—but the safety measure was always necessary, especially when Jaskier involved the others.

“Yes, Speartip.”

“Good.” They didn't need to speak for the moment, Jaskier simply wanted to enjoy Lambert's body, he also hoped sharing Lambert with the others would drive that message home a little. But he didn't want to dwell on that right now, Jaskier only wanted to think about how delicious he'd look spread out and filled with their come. Lips still ghosting over his neck, he dragged kisses from the notch of his collarbone all the way up to his ear lobe, one hand resting against his sternum while the other curled around a firm ass cheek to fondle and squeeze.

Geralt and Eskel returned with the requested items and Lambert held his wrist out for Jaskier to snap their play cuff into place. The metal studs cool against his skin, Lambert let himself slip into a different headspace... he was here for Jaskier to use and touch how he pleased. Lambert didn't need to worry about his pleasure, because no matter what Jaskier desired of his body, he always had Lambert's wants in mind, he didn't need to concern himself with it at the moment, his pleasure was well in Jaskier's elegant hands.

Jaskier placed the towel over the edge of the table and tested its comfort—last thing they needed was brush burn on Lambert's ass—and set the bottle of lube in a pocket for easy access. Everything was in place, except for Lambert... Jaskier pinched his chin between thumb and forefinger, bringing their eyes together. “Sit back, bum hanging off the edge.”

He scrambled to get into position and as soon as he was settled, Jaskier smirked. “Hold him open for me.” Moving like the well trained unit they were, Geralt and Eskel each grabbed a leg, pulling Lambert closer to the edge of the table, hooking their arms under his thighs and spreading his legs wide.

“Fuck,” he groaned and tried to squirm, not to get away, more to test the hold. With a strong arm wrapped under each thigh, Lambert couldn't get leverage or purchase, he was completely at Jaskier's mercy, his hole, cock and balls on full display. They were in the front hall too, the front door just behind them... Lambert's rational mind knew there was a courtyard beyond that, a wall, and a gate, no one was getting in without a siege machine, yet the thought of being so close to the outside—not tucked away in the dark safety of a bedroom—sent a shiver down his spine and a twitch through his cock.

“Be good,” Jaskier whispered. Feather soft touches to the inside of his thighs had Lambert whimpering. Jaskier was still dressed and already, he was falling apart, what state would he be in when they actually started fucking...

One arm under his thighs, Geralt placed his other hand on top of the pool table, giving him a solid foundation. Eskel mirrored him. With two hulking bodies braced around him, Lambert couldn't move out of place at all. Cautiously, he reached up and placed his hands on their shoulders to steady himself. Jaskier didn't stop him, which told Lambert all he needed to know: Jaskier wanted him to take them all, and he was going to start them off with a good pounding. His cock jumped again.

“Eager?” Jaskier said. He took a long moment to run his hands over Lambert's spread thighs, thumbs tickling sensitive skin, traveling all the way down his perineum, brushing over his hole. He watched Lambert's cock leak and jump. “Haven't even touched you yet, not really. How about we see to that now?” Grabbing the lube from the pocket, Jaskier spread a liberal amount over his fingers before pushing them inside.

Lambert hissed, his chest jerking like Jaskier had it on a string. Geralt and Eskel's hold on him tightened. Geralt's hair, long and loose, brushed over his collarbone, adding another layer of sensation to Jaskier's probing fingers methodically opening him up. “Oh, fuck...” Eskel leaned over and rubbed his lips up Lambert's leg, over his forearm, the muscle bulging trying to hold himself together.

Geralt's tickling, Eskel's soft brushes, Jaskier's fucking fingers against his prostate like they were magnetized... Lambert didn't know how he was supposed to hold out for all of them. But he'd manage, because Jaskier asked him to.

Three fingers inside, Jaskier wanted to tease a little more, but found he couldn't wait. Months since he'd seen them all, touched them all at once, had his cock in one of them, his lips on a second and his hands on a third. Slathering far too much lube across his cock, Jaskier lined up with Lambert's hole and pushed in. The slippery slide made them both groan and Jaskier's hands flew to Lambert's hips as Lambert held tighter to Geralt and Eskel.

All of them rotated around each other, the pull of Destiny like gravity. So many years inside his head now, Jaskier could no longer remember a single moment when he didn't love these Witchers with all his soul. His love was burning, blinding, and a weaker man might shy away from it, but his wolves were strong enough to face the endless march of time, the bonfire of his love warming their souls as much as they warmed him.

His fingers were drenched in lube, so slippery, he could barely hold Lambert's hips. But Geralt and Eskel were there, pinning Lambert in place as he writhed on Jaskier's cock. He didn't order him to be still, didn't think that was possible at this moment, and enjoyed the small bit of wriggle. The flutters and clenches of Lambert's inner walls soon proved too much and Jaskier came, emptying himself deep inside one of the three most beautiful bodies on the Continent.

Staggering back, Jaskier needed a moment to get himself together. With Lambert still hard and wanting on the table, Jaskier's spend leaking from his hole, they all still had a job to do. “Geralt,” he panted. “Make it good for him.”

“Always.” The White Wolf released his hold and slid into place, his cock falling out of those tight fucking jeans as soon as he drew the fly down. With only Eskel to hold Lambert open, he guided his other leg up onto Geralt's shoulder, spreading him differently, but no less open. As Jaskier leaned against the wall to recover, he couldn't help but marvel at the open love on Lambert's face, the soft eyes and lips, begging Geralt without words. It was more than simple submission, after hundreds of years together, these three knew everything about one another—vices and virtues, loves and loathes, strengths and weaknesses—there was nothing hidden anymore. So when Geralt slowed his thrusts, rolling his hips deep and leaned over to kiss those too tempting lips, he did it knowing that's exactly what Lambert needed from him.

Jaskier felt tears prickle at the back of his eyes. They were so beautiful together, to be allowed to touch these perfect creatures for two life times now, he couldn't have asked the gods for a greater gift.

With a soft growl and a bite to his lip, Lambert signaled the time for tenderness was over. He wanted what Geralt did best: fast and hard and perfect. Geralt obliged, wrapping a hand around him and jerking roughly until he spilled. He fucked him through the orgasm, lip curled in a half snarl. Oversensitive, Lambert's leg kicked over Geralt's shoulder as a full body twitch almost unseated Eskel.

When Eskel's turn came, Geralt didn't hold Lambert open, didn't need to. He was so tired, so fucked out but still needed one more. Eskel half climbed onto the table and pressed kisses up and down Lambert's neck and chest, licking the sweat gathered there. Jaskier lingered just outside their reach, in a way, he didn't want to intrude. Watching the three of them together was like watching fire dance with water, powerful forces so intertwined and in sync, pushing and pulling in sympathy. Geralt rubbed his face up Lambert's neck, one hand on Eskel as they came, wringing the last bit of pleasure from a nearly exhausted body.

As soon as Eskel pulled out and stumbled back, Jaskier snapped out of his dreamy musings, the duty of caring for Lambert settling over him once more. “Let's get him to bed.”

Sticky and half dressed, Geralt and Eskel pulled a naked and completely spaced out Lambert off the pool table. His chest covered with his own spend, theirs leaking out of his hole... he was messy and beautiful and Jaskier wanted to spend the rest of break worshiping that body with his hands and his lips.

Geralt cradled Lambert to his chest as Jaskier cleaned him up and applied ointment to any irritated areas, a small brush burn on his back from the felt, a little tenderness after taking all three of them, not too bad but still deserving of care. He removed their play cuff and left the every day one in easy reach when Lambert came back to the world. Eskel returned to the bedroom with a fluffy blanket from Lambert's bed, wrapping it around him as they all settled in for a nap. They'd wake in a few hours and shower, eat ravenously, then fuck again. With Lambert pressed against him and still floating, Jaskier held him close. Geralt's large hand settled on his hip, Eskel behind them all.

Jaskier's chest tightened. He was happy, so blissfully in love and enamored with their lives at Corvo Bianco. And that was the problem. Right now, most of his time _wasn't_ at Corvo Bianco... and Jaskier didn't think he could stand it much longer.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier could last one more term, at least spring term was short. Wolf medallion around his neck, Jaskier returned to Oxenfurt after Yule break, determined to stick it out until Belleteyne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier is still having very intense emotions in this chapter, so watch for that. Again, my depiction of Oxenfurt here isn't because I dislike academia, I just hate when it goes wrong.
> 
> Thank you to me beta what_about_the_fish for all your help. I hope everyone enjoys <3

Geralt picked up on it first. Despite pretending to be a block of wood for the last eight hundred some odd years, he was surprisingly quick to notice small changes in mood. Jaskier had been off for a while, but the real tipping point came when Eskel presented him with a School of the Wolf medallion days before he returned to Oxenfurt.

“We forged it for you a few weeks ago,” he said. While Geralt and Eskel both enjoyed using the old methods to make gear, Geralt much preferred hammering out a new sword to making armor or anything fiddly. There were racks and racks of swords in the back of the barn, most of them never used, Geralt just enjoyed the process. But with Corvo Bianco moving closer towards their goal of creating a new School of the Wolf, maybe they'd see some use after all.

Tears prickled in Jaskier's eyes as Eskel slipped the medallion over his head. The cool metal came to rest in the center of his chest, heavy against his sternum. They gave Jaskier a wolf medallion in the old days too, but it was a left over, one they found in the armory, probably made for a boy who died before receiving it like so many did. This one was his, made new with him in mind, not enchanted like the others, but still special. Jaskier lifted the wolf medallion and studied its face. Medallions from different classes varied slightly as the molds wore out and had to be remade, but theirs were all alike, and now Jaskier had one to match.

With a cracked sob, giant tears made their way down Jaskier's cheeks, pouring down like rain. Eskel's mouth fell open and he stood there frozen, all the times they'd seen Jaskier cry—from injury, from laughter, or simply too much emotion in his heart—the cause was always apparent. This seemed to come out of nowhere... for everyone but Geralt.

Lambert moved close to try and fuss—rub Jaskier's hair, his back, anything to make him feel better—while Eskel just stood with his mouth open, gaping at the sadness he thought he'd created. Geralt pushed them both away and wrapped his arms around Jaskier, one hand threading through his hair, the other settling on the swell of his backside, not to arouse but to cover him as totally as possible. He rested his lips below Jaskier's ear, waiting for the crying to slow.

Another sob shook Jaskier's shoulders and he grabbed tight to Geralt, hands fisting in his shirt, nearly ripping the fabric. “I-I'm s-s-sorry...”

“Shush,” Geralt whispered and started rocking back and forth. “When you're ready to talk.”

Jaskier's sobs slowed and then stopped a few minutes later. None of the Witchers dared move, Eskel and Lambert because they had no fucking clue what to do, and Geralt because he would stay where Jaskier needed him as long as required. “I'm sorry,” Jaskier whispered, his voice still thick with tears.

Geralt sighed and guided them to the bedroom, half carrying Jaskier. He set them down on the bed and let the weight of his body hold Jaskier down, the firm pressure a calming counter to the anxiety surely seizing inside of him. He heard Eskel and Lambert shuffle in behind them, but they stayed close to the wall, they didn't crowd in when the last thing Jaskier needed was to worry about his feelings hurting them right now.

Sighing deep, he whispered into Jaskier's hair, “It's Oxenfurt, isn't it?”

A small sob tried to bubble its way through Jaskier's lips but he held it in. “Yes.”

Geralt had seen this break down before, so very long ago. While Jaskier enjoyed the comforts of civilization—warm beds, hot baths, good bed company—his talent thrived out in the world. It was the reason he became a traveling bard in the first place: while he might call a particular woman or man (or Witcher) his muse, he gathered more inspiration from The Path they all walked than anywhere else. All their adventures, not once did Jaskier shy away, throwing himself headlong into danger as long as he knew Geralt was right there with him. The tedium of academia drained him of life. Even the liberal curriculum of Oxenfurt Academy ground him down. The faculty meetings, the stacks of grading, the pressure to produce work besides when his inspiration lay outside Oxenfurt's walls, it ground Jaskier down far too many times for Geralt's liking, and here it was happening again.

When Jaskier had recovered a bit, they all climbed in bed around him and discussed options. Well, Jaskier, Geralt and Eskel spoke. Lambert wormed his way behind Jaskier, holding him tight to his chest, letting his steady heart beat calm him. If Jaskier ever needed a beat to set his life to, there was none better than the heart of a Witcher.

They spent the rest of his break making plans as the house was renovated around them. Jaskier would go back for one more term at least, see if this was the correct decision. “It's not like the old days, they won't let you lecture whenever you fancy if you don't finish. I don't want you to shut the door on that opportunity too quickly,” Geralt said.

“Yes, you're probably right.” Jaskier could last one more term, at least spring term was short. Wolf medallion around his neck, Jaskier returned to Oxenfurt after Yule break, determined to stick it out until Belleteyne.

He made it exactly halfway through the term. There was a long weekend coming up, he and Essi were going to party in Oxenfurt city proper with a few of the history majors they made friends with last year. The parties were familiar and Jaskier missed a good night of wine and drunk singing, something he only got at Oxenfurt. Lambert definitely sang while drunk, but at least Essi was mostly on key.

Unsurprisingly, it was a history class that pushed him over the edge. He'd stop taking the classes if possible, but it was part of the seven liberal arts. He tried to pick the subject matter least likely to piss him off... it never really worked out.

The more he read, the more wrong all the books were. Staggeringly so, not just mistaken dates or a few apocryphal stories that turned into fact after seven hundred years, there were full fucking decades of turmoil just _missing_. No matter how much the war ravaged the land, that did not explain twenty years simply gone from some records. There was no mention of the pogroms short of “human distrust of non-humans led to violent clashes.” The witch hunters were rightly branded as fanatics, but glaring holes in the story caught Jaskier's eye every time; not a single mention of how herbalists—essentially the closest thing most peasants had to a doctor—were also branded magic users and destined for the fire as well.

“You're telling me you've never heard of the Rivian pogrom?” he asked Wilhelm over lunch. “You're studying the Great Wars for your thesis! How did they leave those out?”

For their credit, his history friends seemed as upset as he was. They brought it up in their own classes and received the same stony wall of silence Jaskier got. So it wasn't just him sticking his nose in, it seemed the history written by the victors did not include what said victors did to non-humans.

They were in the middle of a timeline of kings, Jaskier wasn't really listening, when the professor's words finally caught his attention. “The Butcher of Blaviken, a fitting nick name for Geralt of Rivia, who would go on to become an infamous kingslayer...”

Jaskier didn't hear the rest, the blood hammered too loudly in his ears, drowning out all other sound. A few other students peered at him, trying to be nonchalant about it. By now, Jaskier was more renown for who he shared his bed with than his academic work; everyone more or less knew he was _with_ Geralt of Rivia, and now his name showed up in class, of course people wanted to see his reaction.

There was a timeline on the board, the white chalk making its black and white representation of the facts seem purely academic when in reality, it was the result of seven centuries of lies. _King Foltest – Murdered by Geralt of Rivia_.

Snapping his book shut, Jaskier gathered his things and left, the professor still speaking. A low murmur of scandal followed him out the doors, and he heard Essi's voice said, “He wasn't feeling well this morning, bit of a bug going around, cold weather, you know...”

He went to the dining hall and waited for Essi at their usual table. Half an hour later, she dropped into the seat across from him, her little blue eyes especially watery. “This is it, then?”

“This is it.” Jaskier slid his hand across the table, palm up for her to hold. He squeezed her tiny fingers and smiled at the blue pearl around her neck. “You are more than welcome to visit me at Corvo Bianco. Any time you want.”

She smiled even as the tears started to gently drip down her cheeks, soft and beautiful as ever. “You sure they won't mind?”

Jaskier shrugged. “It's my house too. They're very insistent on that. Besides, we're trying to open a training school, or whatever. Might need guest lecturers every once in a while.”

Jaskier went out with Essi and their other friends that weekend like they planned, the last bit of anger falling away. He couldn't change history inside of Oxenfurt's walls, but Oxenfurt wasn't the only source of education on the Continent. Books weren't caged in libraries anymore, people read for pleasure, they discussed history in cafes over coffee, went to conventions to hear speakers talk about events long past. Between his journals, and the three muscle bound primary sources that shared his bed, Jaskier had enough credentials to get him anywhere. As he drank and sang with Essi, pushing her towards Tommel (a history major she'd had her eye on for months) Jaskier started to plan.

* * *

Geralt picked him up at the airport, as requested. They had some things to discuss. As someone who valued silence, Geralt didn't push him to talk right away. When they were in the car, outside of town but still a ways from home, Jaskier spoke. “So, you killed King Foltest?” Geralt said nothing and Jaskier fought the urge to punch him. “Fuck, Geralt, we worked so hard to clear your name and you let them sully it again? And you're fucking around to correct the mistake! Why did you let it stand? Why do you let history remember you as a murderer?”

They drove in silence for another moment, Geralt weighing his answer. “Because I am alive. Letho is dead. If I tried to pin his crimes where they rightly belong, it would look like I was trying to rewrite history, not correct it.” Jaskier huffed, glaring out the window. But when Geralt's hand settled on his knee, he didn't push it away. “I don't care what the world thinks of me, only what you three do.”

Jaskier shook his head but squeezed Geralt's hand anyway. “Most men don't get to guard their own legacy. Why don't you take the chance?”

“It doesn't matter to me.”

Jaskier turned and looked at Geralt. His eyes on the road, he still saw Jaskier out of the corner of his eye, saw the firm set to his lips and the hard line of his jaw, the raw determination written across his face. “It matters to me. I fixed your reputation once, I will do it again.”

Geralt couldn't help but smile. “Eskel will help you with that,” he said. “Pack meeting when we get home. Eskel has news.” Geralt didn't elaborate on said news, Eskel preferred to make his case for himself. But before they lapsed into peaceful silence, Geralt had one more point to make. “I didn't push you when you said you dropped out, but we do expect an explanation. Before Eskel gets his meeting, you will tell us. We need to know what's going on in that head of yours. I know why you left Oxenfurt the first time, doesn't mean your reasons are the same now.”

“Mmm, I sort of think they are. You're all so keen to remind me I don't have to be that same man, I don't think you've noticed I am still him.” He bumped his head against the seat. “And I still have to tell my mother...”

Jaskier convinced Geralt to pull off to the side of the road and let him grope and kiss for a minute. If he had to rip open his mind and explain the contents as soon as he got home, he wanted a little touch before, with the promise of more later. Geralt let him drag lips up and down his throat, kissing and biting hard enough to leave fleeting marks, all the while pointedly ignoring the hard cock poking his side. “Later,” he rumbled, fingers massaging the back of Jaskier's neck, playing with the longer hair swirling around his nape. “If you're good.”

“Isn't that my line?” They pulled back onto the road and made it home only a few minutes later than expected.

Lambert didn't immediately jump on Jaskier when he walked into the door, nor did Eskel slide out of the study (now library, Jaskier already missed the pool table but appreciated the newly opened space, more room to walk) to greet him. Geralt nodded down the hall towards the kitchen. “Pool table's in the barn, you can play with it later if you want. They're waiting.” But the White Wolf wasn't as concerned with duty as he pretended to be, not when he slid a hand across Jaskier's ass, feeling him up and spurring him down the hall.

Eskel sat at the kitchen table, thick stacks of papers and official looking manuals stacked around him. Lambert sat in the chair next to him, vibrating with the need to move. As soon as he saw Jaskier, he jumped to his feet and wrapped around him, sticking his face into Jaskier's neck while also reaching for Geralt's hand. Hmm, Lambert was still a little too possessive for Jaskier's liking.

Jaskier's eyes fell to the documents around Eskel, but the scarred man shook his head. “You first. Why did you leave Oxenfurt? I'm not trying to convince you to go back, you know your own mind. We just want to understand.”

“I supposed that's fair.” Squeezing Lambert one last time, Jaskier untangled them and stepped away. While he loved having them near and would wrap himself up in them very shortly, he had to stand on his own and explain these reasons, it felt better to do it that way. Making eye contact with Eskel, Jaskier explained the reasons he'd had for probably the last seven hundred years.

“I am not Julian Alfred Pankratz. I am not Jaskier the Bard of Kaer Morhen, or the Bard, Dandelion.” Lambert and Geralt shifted at the unfamiliar name, but Eskel smirked; he was the only one who knew of Jaskier's other, _other_ pseudonym, the one he used for his truly experimental ballads when he wanted to be anonymous again. “But I don't think I'm Jaskier de Stael either, not completely. I want to play new music, and tell old stories. I want the world to remember what you've all done for it, and know what we're going to do next. I had to go to Oxenfurt to realize—that is very much a part of my past. The School of the Wolf is my past, present and future. If you won't guard its legacy among the humans, I will. Oxenfurt cannot help me do that.” His eyes flicked up to Eskel. “What do you say, Headmaster? Will you let me sing of the School of the Wolf once more?”

Jaskier would sing, shout, bellow their tales from the roof tops: of brave Geralt, who moved heaven and earth to rescue his daughter and any other child in need; of Eskel's magic, strong enough to topple any foe; of Lambert the lion heart, who loved with his whole soul despite the pain it caused; and of any new Witcher produced by their training. Once, Jaskier was the Bard of Kaer Morhen, spreading its history and stories, he'd do so again, screaming their praises until the world fucking listened. He'd correct the record of their glories, old and new.

Eskel's tiny smile widened. “All good schools need a good bard.”

Jaskier stepped back and wrapped an arm around Geralt, pulling him in. Lambert barely needed the flutter of Jaskier's eyelashes as an invite to plaster against his side. He waggled his fingers for Eskel to join them, and smiled when the stoic Witcher did. Pressed between them all, the final weight inside Jaskier's chest released.

“You want stories and songs?” Lambert mumbled just above his ear as he sniffed at Jaskier's hair. “Let's go up the coast together, kill some drowners and take their treasure.”

“Mmm, yes, I'd like that.” He heard it now, a wonderful ballad of pirate ghosts imprisoned by the dead, their treasure lost at the bottom of the sea until a brave Witcher and his bard came along to liberate it. Now that sure as fuck wasn't a love song, even if he planned to spend most of the trip fucking Lambert stupid.

Jaskier spent another moment basking, letting the thick, far too masculine smell of them all curl around him, sticking to his skin and his hair until he couldn't tell where he ended and they began. The wolf medallion warm against his skin, the last little piece of his heart slid into place. Yes, he was right to go to Oxenfurt, he had to go in order to realize that he was beyond it, like he was beyond it in his first lifetime. Oxenfurt was part of the record of the past, Jaskier wanted to rewrite the past and future of Witchers, and he needed inspiration for that, inspiration his wolves gave him in spades.

“Alright, onto this pack meeting.” Jaskier nudged Eskel back towards the table but kept a hold of Lambert and Geralt.

A frown he wore so often these days slid back into place. Eskel picked up the thickest packet of papers and held them up in front of him. Besides the large calligraphy of the header, the rest of the font was so tiny, Jaskier had to squint to read it, and it was still dense legal jargon. “I've talked with the government—several, actually—and they agree more Witchers are needed. It's why Redania went to Oxenfurt in the first place with the project.

“It won't be like the old days, we're not going to take boys against their will, I don't think any of us want that.” A grumble of agreement swept through the room. “The easiest way for us to do it is to register as a boarding school. Nilfgaard, Toussaint, Temeria and Redania are all on board, and a few of the Skellige Isles are interested as well. This is the first time I've heard those countries agree on anything, and they've all agreed to go through with our project. Full backing and support.” He handed Geralt the packet of papers, letting them all read the title on the contract.

_Kaer Morhen South – School for Witchers_

“Hmm, not as snappy as School of the Wolf,” Geralt said.

Eskel rolled his eyes and took the papers back, setting them safely on the table. “Yeah well, last chance school for delinquents didn't sound nice. That's what we'll be—along the same lines as a military academy. We only take kids on their last chance, try and teach them something better.”

Geralt opened his mouth to argue, then paused. Jaskier saw his wheels turning. Taken as babes, though Lambert was a little older, they all fought and snapped every day of their lives until the training started to kick in, the meditation, the skill of the sword giving them all something to have pride in. “You might be onto something there. We were all terrors, Kaer Morhen straightened us out. For better or for worse.”

“We won't take anyone younger than eight or older than eleven, and that's pushing it. Not to start anyway.”

Jaskier balked. “Are there seriously children in the world on their last chance by the age of eight?”

A look passed between them all, a shared memory Jaskier didn't know about and did not like. “Yes, there are enough of those children still left in the world.” Eskel shifted his notes around and continued like the horrible reality of man's cruelty was a mundane subject for them. Well, Jaskier supposed it was. “Like we agreed before, no more than ten at a time. So one class of ten or two classes of five, you get it. All the kids get a choice, I was firm on that. No court will sentence them here, we're not a prison they'll get out of after serving their sentence, we're teaching skills for a whole life time.”

“Kids?” Jaskier asked. “Boys and girls?”

“Whoever. We trained Ciri no different than we'd train a boy.”

Lambert smirked, nodding. “Yes, School of the Cat trained women, no problem with it.”

“There's a lot more.” Eskel ran a hand through his hair, eyes passing over the mountain of information spread across the kitchen table. Jaskier suspected they'd be eating in the library tonight so as not to disturb his organization system. Mmm, he needed an office next, definitely. “We need certifications for teaching, you all need to get finger printed by multiple governments, sign this with a notary present—you too, Jaskier, you're Professor Jaskier now, teacher of music and literature. We've got the Witcher shit covered, you make sure they know how to enjoy the rest of life.”

Jaskier snorted. “Oh yes, such a light responsibility. You get swords and meditation and I get everything else.” While Eskel, Geralt and Lambert found their individual passions in life out of sheer need to read a book not about monsters, Jaskier supposed guiding young Witchers-to-be towards hobbies and interests might be nice, a good use of his time while he was righting the wrongs history had done to Geralt through cheap propaganda. “But yes, sounds fun.”

There was more, of course there was more. There were inspections, classes they had to take, Jaskier had to become a somewhat certified music teacher... “None of this will happen overnight,” Eskel said. “This will be a long time coming, all we have is a road map now.”

* * *

On Jaskier's first night home, they liked to pull out all the stops. But Eskel had been running full out with this school business and wasn't up to anything creative. It gave Lambert the opportunity to shove past him in bed and wrap around Jaskier. His possessive streak, brought on by longing, got wider still now that Jaskier was home full time, so Jaskier took a few days to think of a... creative corrective method.

A week or so later, when Eskel seemed a little recovered, Jaskier sat Lambert on his knees, hands bound behind his back, watching the bed. Ignoring Lambert, Geralt and Eskel twisted around him, touching and kissing him everywhere. Jaskier kept his eyes on Lambert, making sure he saw every moment of it. Hands behind his back, cock straining, a thin string of precome dribbled down his shaft onto the floor. He had them lay facing the foot of the bed, so Lambert was mere inches away when they both fucked into Jaskier.

Eskel's chest heaving under him, Geralt's hair cascading over his back, Jaskier was barely coherent enough to look at Lambert, the two cocks inside him almost driving him insane. “I love you,” he whispered, couldn't manage much better. “But I am not yours. They get to touch me and have me as well. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Lambert bit his lip, all his muscles tensing. But he held himself in check like a good boy, he didn't want to break the nice padded cuffs Jaskier bought him. “You're ours, we're yours, yes, now please... let me touch you.”

“After they come.” Jaskier reached out and ran a hand down the side of Lambert's face, it was enough to make him shiver and his cock twitch sharply. “It would be rude to leave them hanging. Be a good wolf for me and watch.”

Lambert licked his lips, nodding. _You have to share with your brothers_ , it was an easy lesson but Lambert forgot it from time to time. Too many years on The Path alone, it was easy to lose himself...

In a formidable show of restraint, Jaskier let Geralt and Eskel come inside him, his own cock still hard and wanting. After Eskel pulled out and Geralt shivered through a few last pulses, he clamped a hand down on the base of his cock, chasing away the urge to come. Lambert earned a reward. Sticky and sore, Jaskier nodded to Lambert. “Geralt, get him up here, cuffs off.” Jaskier leaned back against the pillows and opened his arms for his lap full of Lambert. When he kissed and tasted his fill, Jaskier turned him around, head down, ass presented nicely. Yanking Lambert's hips up his chest, Jaskier pushed him flat along his body, pulling Lambert's ass right to his mouth.

The first lick sent him shuddering, so close already. “You can come,” Jaskier mumbled into quivering skin. A few more licks and Lambert did just that, soaking Jaskier with another load. Absolutely dripping and still hard, Jaskier melted into a puddle on the bed. “Someone put my cock in their mouth, I don't care who.” All three scrambled to comply. Barely the first whisper of a tongue and Jaskier came, covering them all in streaks of come, some definitely landing in Geralt's hair. They'd wash later, for now, he needed to close his eyes for a bit...

* * *

While Eskel said this was the beginning of a very long road, the days seemed to fly. Geralt had four dorm rooms built up on the second floor, three beds each. They agreed to ten students only, but it was good to have the extra room. Jaskier couldn't imagine if they had to make more renovations while training a bunch of unruly kids. His old bedroom was now actually a music room and Geralt was keen for him to use it as such. “Do you know how much better Kaer Morhen would've been with music lessons? The drinking songs alone.”

Jaskier tried to imagine a dining hall thundering with the gravely voices of a hundred Witchers. A shiver ran down his spine at the thought. “Maybe you have a point.”

They had a proper training space in the courtyard, an actual fucking classroom off the library extension, they removed a few walls and opened up the living area, placing a large dining table between the now open plan kitchen and what, in a normal house, would be the living room. Here it was... mostly seating. After a hard day's work, they all collapsed onto a couch and dozed for a bit, listening as Jaskier plucked away at his lute, played the piano or strummed his guitar a little. The TV from the study-cum-library made its way out there and they started having more movie nights. Everything seemed more or less normal, remove the building dust everywhere and the half destroyed walls, and Jaskier might forget they were planning on opening a fucking boarding school. Which was more than terrifying.

Lambert got restless after a while and begged Jaskier to come up the coast with him. “Hunt with me,” he whispered between kisses. They weren't playing, but Eskel needed a rest and Geralt didn't want them to be disturbed while he tried to massage away the tension of arguing with multiple governments over contracts and laws.

“Mmm, possible...” Jaskier whispered. He never traveled alone with Lambert in the old days, Geralt didn't trust him to look after a fragile human and keep his own skin in tact. Jaskier did spend a glorious few days with Lambert and Aiden on The Path that they never told Geralt about. They bumped into each other in the middle of the woods of all places, and Jaskier could not pass up the opportunity to see that honey skin pressed against Lambert's pallor.

“You should go,” Geralt said. Eskel was passed out in the big bed and Geralt came to say goodnight. Jaskier sent Lambert to the shower so they could have a moment alone. The weight of the renovations, taking care of Eskel as he ran himself into the ground... it wasn't easy on the White Wolf.

“I don't want to leave you alone.” He brushed a lock of snow white hair from his eyes and Geralt nearly purred. “If you burst a gasket, who will be here to take care of Eskel when he finally has that aneurysm?” The governing elites of Nilfgaard, Redania, Toussaint and Temeria didn't know how lucky they were to conduct business with Eskel over the phone. They were all impatient for their new Witcher access but each had their own set of guidelines for him to meet. Redania pushed for in person meetings and Eskel almost wanted to accept; Jaskier saw it in the twitch of his mouth, he wanted to see those annoying, bureaucratic faces before a strong Igni burnt down their whole parliament.

Geralt tried to smile and dropped his head onto Jaskier's shoulder instead, he and Eskel both so tired... “I'll be fine. I can build a new wing on the house easier than Eskel can make Nilfgaard and Temeria agree on who gets to set our standards. Go hunting with Lambert. It'll be good for you both. Maybe you'll finally figure out how to do what you want now that Oxenfurt is out of the picture.”

Jaskier bit his lip. Yes, there was that. In his quest to correct the record, then record the new history of the School of the Wolf, he didn't actually know how to do that. While Dean Solla understood Jaskier's motives for dropping out, the Oxenfurt printing houses weren't well pleased. Oxenfurt was the educational hub of the North, every book printed passed through that city at one time or another; with word of Jaskier's “family collection” making its way through the academic circles there, the publishing houses counted on their cut of the glory. Not so much anymore...

“Alright,” he whispered, kissing Geralt's ear. “I'll take a trip with Lambert. Should be fun.” After all, the last one worked out swimmingly.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lambert wasn't as attached to his car as Geralt was, or even Eskel. The El Camino was transport, like his Chevy had been before that, and the station wagon before that. A vehicle was just a way to get from job to job, another tool he used on The Path. No need to get sentimental.
> 
> But before he and Jaskier took off for a few weeks of hunting, you better fucking believe Lambert made that El Camino shine. He spent days cleaning and detailing the interior, and almost a whole day with Geralt working on the engine. This car had to purr all the way up the coast, nothing else would do for Jaskier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter was supposed to be 50/50 Jaskier and Lambert adventures, flashback sexy goodness. The flashback took over, but I don't think anyone will complain. I also asked the amazing RawrkinJD for suggestions on this chapter and she did not disappoint.
> 
> Side note: there is sex in the woods here. As someone who grew up in a semi-rural area, sex in the woods happens, I wouldn't recommend it, please be safe. Thank you again to my beta what_about_the_fish. And with that, please enjoy!

Geralt took immaculate care of his vehicle, inside and out. The Scout was show room perfect when he wasn't driving it through the middle of nowhere, and even then, he stopped to clean off the worst of the mud and dirt when he had time. He checked the engine whenever he stopped in a town and convinced a mechanic to let him use their garage space, usually on the condition that they could also look under the hood of the classic car. Geralt treated the Scout like he'd treat any Roach: a dependable companion who deserved as much comfort and care as he could provide.

Eskel took care of the _inside_ of his truck. The engine ran smooth, every groan or stuttered start was inspected immediately, and he never pushed the oil until he found a town. If he needed a change, he'd pull off the road and do it himself. Eskel's truck ran like it was fresh off the lot, better even. The outside was less of a concern for him. More than once, Jaskier watched Geralt go pale at the sight of the truck covered in dirt and viscera so thick, you couldn't tell the color. “Kikimore slime will eat your paint, Eskel,” Geralt snapped as he got down to work trying to clean the monstrosity Eskel drove back to Corvo Bianco.

He shrugged. “It doesn't need to look pretty. As long as the engine runs. And, it does.”

Lambert fell somewhere between the two of them: his El Camino was in pretty good shape, a few dings and some stubborn dirt he didn't have time to wash off, and maybe the engine needed a tune up... This resulted in flack from both sides: “You have a custom paint job. I know, I did it for you. Why do you let it get so dirty?” Geralt growled.

“Lambert, how long has your check engine light been on?” Eskel asked, shoving him out of the way and popping the hood. “When did you last change the oil?” It's not that Lambert didn't want to take care of his car, he really enjoyed it, spending long afternoons in the garage with Geralt, detailing the Scout, then the El Camino for something to do. Lambert just wasn't as attached to his car as Geralt was, or even Eskel. The El Camino was transport, like his Chevy had been before that, and the station wagon before that. A vehicle was just a way to get from job to job, another tool he used on The Path. No need to get sentimental.

But before he and Jaskier took off for a few weeks of hunting, you better fucking believe Lambert made that El Camino shine. He spent days cleaning and detailing the interior, and almost a whole day with Geralt working on the engine. This car had to purr all the way up the coast, nothing else would do for Jaskier. Once the bed cover was in place, Lambert double checked his supplies before heading in for the night.

Geralt and Eskel were wrapped around Jaskier—they needed their alone time, but they were still going to miss their bright human spark for a few weeks—Lambert tried not to disturb them as he leaned over and smirked. “Tomorrow,” he whispered.

Sleepy eyes still sparkled up at him. “Tomorrow.”

They planned to head up the coast. Drowners were one of the few monsters they could never hope to get rid of completely—as long as humans headed into the sea, there would be accidents and yet more drowners—and it was low risk enough to be safe for Jaskier, but still enough to be fun for Lambert. He promised not to go farther than former Kerack before turning them around, two weeks and change, more than enough time to get Jaskier out of his post Oxenfurt funk.

Oxenfurt was wearing him down, Geralt wasn't the only one to see it. They were so deeply buried in figuring out how to train more Witchers that Lambert didn't want their stressful shit transferring over. Jaskier was like that, their relationship was based on taking Lambert's mind off the world for a few hours, if Lambert tried to do the same, he didn't want Jaskier to think there was something missing from their time together. So he always let Jaskier come to them with his troubles.

Well, he was out now, and while the weight of anger and frustration at an academic world that refused to learn was gone, Jaskier had a new burden: he had no fucking clue what the rest of his life was for. He wanted to correct the record, he and Eskel pressed their heads together, talking quietly when they thought Lambert and Geralt were asleep, trying to figure out how that even worked. “I know it takes a bit of time to integrate new sources into texts, but there has to be a way. I'm not sure I know what it is though... how does one cite their own memories? Can I even go to conferences without Oxenfurt backing?”

“You'll find the right way to do it,” Eskel whispered. “The right way for you. Cite your memories all you like, but make sure they're Jaskier the Bard's memories. We can't let anyone know about the reincarnation.”

Between Eskel worrying about Training Camp School of the Wolf Part Two, Geralt building what felt like a whole new house attached to the old one, and Jaskier basically living in the vault getting familiar with his journals again, they all needed a break. So Lambert and Jaskier headed up the coast while Geralt spent the weekend fucking Eskel in the sauna.

So Toussaint wasn't actually near the coast and they had some driving to do first. Lambert left Jaskier alone to stare out the window, enjoying the breeze in his hair. After a few hours of driving, Jaskier turned to him and smiled. “Thank you. I think... I think I needed this.”

Lambert nudged him back, smirking in triumph. “Why do you think I suggested it? We'll hit the coast, kill some drowners, investigate some shipwrecks. If you're not inspired by the end of this trip, we can figure something else out. Harpy hunting in the mountains? I'll take you wherever you need, Buttercup.”

Jaskier dragged his knuckles down Lambert's cheek and watched him fight the urge to close his eyes—eyes on the road, Geralt told him before they left. “Otherwise, Jaskier gets nervous when I drive.”

The first few days were mostly driving, Jaskier enjoying the scenery that passed them by, humming and singing small snips of tunes under his breath, nothing that could turn into a solid song though. The first night, Lambert turned them into a town and towards a motel. Jaskier was a little surprised. “Geralt sleeps in the Scout. Even Eskel has a cabin cover for his pick up.”

Lambert raised an eyebrow and pointed to his lack of back seat. “Bed's filled with gear, no way we'll fit. There's also no way I'm letting you sleep outside in the middle of nowhere, not when we're near enough to civilization. I have a tent, we'll camp when we get to the beach.”

Though they had several comfortable beds at home, the novelty of a motel with a Witcher on The Path thrilled Jaskier to no end. “Just like the old days.” He face planted into the middle of the bed, testing the squish of the mattress. “Ah, I love the future, comfortable mattresses not filled with straw.”

Lambert was quick to join him. Gear all stored, alarm set for the morning, there was nothing stopping him from crawling all over Jaskier, growling and biting his fill. They didn't bring any toys with them—Lambert was insistent about traveling light on The Path—but Lambert's padded cuffs were in the bottom of Jaskier's bag. Sometimes, he enjoyed letting his wolves loose, letting them grab at him, bite and leave marks all over his skin. Lambert would pay him back later with an upturned ass and distant, floaty eyes, but for now, he got to have his fun biting bruises into Jaskier's neck. Geralt and Eskel were already so far away, no one else to compete with for Jaskier's affection...

“Easy,” he cautioned as Lambert bit a little too hard on the light chub of his stomach. A small whine and a lick in apology. “Good wolf.” Jaskier spent the night stroking his fingers through Lambert's hair, leading him a little as his tongue touched what felt like every part of Jaskier. Tomorrow night, he'd treat Lambert to all sorts of delights, but for now, Jaskier enjoyed the rough care of his predator.

Another day of traveling, another motel, this one a little nicer. It wasn't just the simple bed with a bathroom they had the night before, and definitely not the slightly seedy mini-apartment complete with small kitchen meant for long term living. There was a dresser with a decent sized mirror, and a loveseat in front of a small TV.

Lambert was already in the shower, waiting for Jaskier to join, but Jaskier's eyes were too focused on that loveseat; the large, chunky arms were a little odd, longer than normal, just long enough for Lambert's chest to rest comfortably... A memory started to form behind his eyes.

Cock jumping to life, Jaskier stripped and went to the bathroom, stepping into the shower behind Lambert and pressing in close, his cock resting in the cleft of Lambert's ass. “Whoa, eager, are we?” he asked, shampoo all over his fingers.

Jaskier didn't care about getting smeared with shampoo and leaned in close, lips brushing Lambert's ear. “Do you remember when we met on The Path? You and Aiden were together...”

The quick hiss of breath told Jaskier that yes, Lambert definitely remembered. He wrapped his arms around Lambert's chest, swiping down through trails of soap. “I did wonder why you were so quick to accept when I held you down for the first time. I thought maybe you and Geralt or Eskel tried something... But it was Aiden. As I remember it, you two met up every year for some very specific _activities_.”

“It wasn't—that wasn't the only reason,” Lambert whispered. “You were both _special_ for me.” The way Lambert's voice softened on the word “special” broke Jaskier's heart every time. He rubbed his cheek along Lambert's back, both closing their eyes, basking in the shared memory.

Jaskier knew a lot of Witchers, all the living Wolves, a few Bears (Eskel said there were more, but they didn't travel in the same ranges as School of the Wolf) and an unfortunate acquaintance with a Viper, and finally, Aiden. While their meeting had been brief, Jaskier fancied meeting Aiden again, possibly the only other non-wolf on the Continent who had Lambert stories to share. Now that they'd sniffed each other out, he didn't see why they couldn't be friends. Maybe he should ask Lambert where Aiden spent his time, they could meet up, share a drink, possibly enjoy a night wrapped around their shared Wolf...

Imagine Jaskier's surprise when he fucking ran into them in the middle of the woods. A nearby explosion and a familiar shout of “Fuck yeah!” made Jaskier jump at first, until he remembered Lambert enjoyed fishing with explosives.

“Lambert!” he shouted into the woods.

A moment later, Lambert poked his head out from behind a bush, eyes lighting up. “Jaskier!” Lambert launched himself at Jaskier, grabbing him into a bone crunching hug.

He rubbed his nose against Jaskier's, pressing their foreheads together and then rubbing his face across Jaskier's neck before licking into his mouth, the same way they greeted each other during winter. Jaskier was accustomed to winter Lambert—exuberant, open with his affection, grabby and playful—and he was somewhat familiar with Lambert on The Path—professional, if a little cocky. Seeing winter Lambert here in the middle of the world was... odd, but not bad, definitely not a bad thing.

“I'm camping with Aiden,” he whispered, voice soft, almost cooing. “Want to stay for a few days?”

Jaskier smiled, wrapping an arm around Lambert's hips. “If Aiden doesn't mind. He and I... crossed paths two years ago. Did he tell you?”

Lambert made a noncommittal sound and took his hand, leading him through the trees, towards a small stream. A little farther down the stream, Jaskier saw a camp. It didn't look like the kind of simple arrangements Geralt made—just a fire, a bedroll and a spot for Roach—they had a tent, a stone circle around their fire, and a log covered in blankets for comfortable reclining. The laundry drying on a nearby tree told Jaskier they'd been here for a few days.

He chuckled to himself as Lambert bounded over to greet Aiden with a kiss. “I'd like Jaskier to stay a few days, is that alright?”

Aiden didn't look at Jaskier at first, he only had eyes for Lambert. Running gentle fingers up his arm, he shrugged. “If that's what you want.”

“I do.”

Aiden smiled, nodding to Jaskier. “Then he can join us.” He gave Lambert a tap on the ass. “Want to see about dinner? Clean those fish you _caught_?”

Lambert sat down and got to work, leaving Jaskier standing with Aiden. “So, when Geralt tells me you two meet up on The Path, he thinks you're hunting together...”

Aiden smirked, sitting by the fire. “So does my school. We take contracts occasionally, but a summer rest is needed some years.” His eyes went soft as he watched Lambert move around the camp, gutting the fish and removing bomb shrapnel. “He looks so beautiful in the sunlight.”

“Yes, he does.” Jaskier stood awkwardly at the edge of their camp, his bag heavy on his hip, lute still on his back. “Aiden, what... what do you expect here? I know we spoke about Lambert before. I don't want to intrude if you—”

Golden eyes met his, but they were different. Instead of the layer of caution spread across his face, Aiden let his love radiate out. Jaskier's heart caught for a moment. He'd seen that look before, reflected back in a mirror, the face of a man totally in love with a Witcher. “Whatever he wants. I did not expect to meet you on this road, this is our usual camp site. If Lambert desires your company, then so do I.”

A silent conversation passed between them. _I only love Wolves, what do you expect..._

Aiden shrugged. _Whatever you are prepared to give. We could just share him?_

“You two done making plans for my ass?” Lambert stood up, plate full of cleaned fish in his hand. “We eat now, figure out the sex after dinner.” _Because there will be sex_ , Lambert's gaze said.

Jaskier set down his bags and sat, leaving a space between him and Aiden big enough for Lambert to occupy. He was pleased when Lambert did exactly that. “I'm sure we'll figure it out...” Despite Lambert's dubious fishing methods, the meal was excellent. Jaskier had nothing but stale trail rations for days and was glad for the fresh food.

Lambert sat between them, joking and laughing like he would in the dining hall of Kaer Morhen. But Jaskier saw the little stolen touches from Aiden—a brush across his knee, a hand on his back—slowly building the intimacy of their little camp. Though he watched Jaskier carefully, Aiden didn't stop him from touching Lambert as well, and by the time they finished their food, Lambert was openly purring between them.

Setting their plates aside, Aiden drew Lambert into a kiss, slowly licking into his mouth, fingers rubbing across his cheek. He finished with a soft nip to Lambert's bottom lip before passing him over to Jaskier. Lambert leaned over without a fuss, lips meeting Jaskier's for a similarly deep kiss. He curled his fingers around the back of Lambert's neck, playing with the soft tendrils of hair hair and earning a low purr. Once Jaskier explored his mouth to his content—a rare treat outside of winter—he pulled back, holding Lambert close enough to feel his breath across his lips.

“What do you want tonight, my wolf?” he whispered, stroking Lambert's hair.

“Both of you,” he breathed. “Fucking me all night. I've imagined you both so many times... and now you're here.” His voice was so soft, a tone Jaskier recognized from winter. It made him instantly hard every time.

“I think that can be arranged,” Aiden said. Though Lambert was plastered across Jaskier's chest right now, Aiden leaned in, running his nose up the back of his neck and nipping lightly before pulling away. “Jaskier, hold him for a moment, if you don't mind. And do get him out of those clothes.”

This at least, was familiar. Lambert leaned into Jaskier, turning when prompted, lifting his arms, letting the bard undress him. His slid fingers along Lambert's toned stomach, most of his winter weight gone, the hard muscle beneath stronger than ever. It might start to wither soon, when contracts became more scarce and coin was short. Jaskier tried to put that out of his mind though.

When Jaskier stripped Lambert's shirt and laid it safely across their packs, he swept in close and kissed up his neck, fingers scratching through his hair. “Do we need a dip in the stream, my wolf? Or are you ready for me?”

“We had a dip this morning.” Aiden moved in close against Lambert's back, squishing him between them once again. Jaskier had been in this same position between Eskel and Geralt, and he could only dream to look as blissfully happy as Lambert did right now. With Jaskier's hands in his hair and lips on his neck, Aiden's trailing down his sides, his eyes fluttered closed and a soft purr escaped. Aiden nibbled at the back of Lambert's neck before pulling back. “Get in place.”

Lambert stole one last kiss from Jaskier before floating over to the other side of their camp. Slightly away from the fire, the old log covered in blankets now had ropes looped around both ends... Lambert lay down across it, face down, knees splayed. The log was exactly long enough to support him and leave his ass on brilliant display, all Jaskier had to do was kneel behind him and brace... Fuck.

A lump rose in Jaskier's throat, lust pooling in his stomach as he watched Aiden slip the ropes around Lambert's wrists and ankles. Such intricate knots, Jaskier could barely follow Aiden's quick hands. The ropes themselves were a marvel, not ordinary hemp rope, these were smooth and soft, much like the ones found in the darker rooms of a brothel.

The stream, the secluded grove of trees hiding them from the road, the perfectly shaped log... “Come here a lot, do you?” Jaskier asked.

Aiden checked the knots one more time, stroking a hand down the small of Lambert's back before looking up at Jaskier. “This is our regular camping spot. I know a brothel in Novigrad, the lady of the house is a friend of mine and allows me to use her... equipment.” Lambert's head hung over the end of the log, his ass at the other, knees spread wide in the soft grass. Aiden tipped his head up, dragging the point of his finger all the way up his lovely neck. “But _someone_ has been kicked out of almost every brothel on the Continent for brawling with johns, she can't take the risk of her investors seeing him around. So I improvise. Is the tie good? No pain?” Lambert nodded but Aiden ran his fingers along the ropes anyway, checking Lambert's fingers for circulation.

“Right.” Standing up straight, Aiden opened his breeches, letting his impressive cock out into the warm dusk air. Fuck, was there a Witcher on the Continent who wasn't hung like a centaur? He stroked a few times, eyes sliding over Lambert's kneeling body. Tied as he was, Jaskier didn't think he could slip those knots. “Guests first.”

Though his cock twitched in anticipation, and Lambert looked more than happy exactly where he was—tied with smooth ropes, resting on comfortable blankets, knees splayed wide, cock hard—Jaskier hadn't done anything like this before. A few partners asked to be tied, but to a bed with silk scarves, not over a log with serious looking ropes.

Checking Aiden's expression, Jaskier knelt down by Lambert's head. “Is this what you want?” he whispered. “It's... different, from winter.”

Bound as he was, Lambert had enough range of motion to nod. Slightly misty eyes locked with Jaskier's. “Aiden likes the ropes. I do too, sometimes. They make me feel... safe. And so do you.” He parted his lips, inviting Jaskier in for a kiss. He took the invitation, pressing his tongue deep and tasting every inch of Lambert's mouth. Strange, he tasted different than in winter, there was no snowy bite on his lips chapped from the dry winter air, his mouth was soft and warm and summer sweet.

“Why don't you go first?” Jaskier said, his eyes not leaving Lambert. “I'd like to... watch how he is with you.”

Aiden smiled, dropping to his knees behind. He took a moment to run one reverent hand up Lambert's flank, his thumb barely teasing his crack. Jaskier heard the stopper from a vial, but he was too entranced by the wave of pleasure crossing Lambert's face. As soon as Aiden's fingers brushed his hole, his mouth fell open, a soft sigh escaping. Jaskier caught the sound with his lips and Lambert moaned, already starting to rut against the makeshift bench he was tied over.

“Jaskier,” Aiden asked, his voice soft and even. “Would you like me to tell you what I'm doing?”

“Yes please,” Jaskier whispered, then busied himself with Lambert's mouth again.

“Two fingers to start. He's so accommodating but tight as all hell. I love feeling him flutter around me straight off.” Another squish of oil, Lambert moaned against Jaskier's lips. “There's the third. Do you want me to tease him a little? Or should we go right to the meat of things?”

“Tease him,” Jaskier breathed. The height of the log was perfect for fucking, but not kissing and he had to pull back. Sitting next to Lambert's head, Jaskier traced his fingers over his lips, eventually giving him three fingers to suck on. Three fingers in his ass, three fingers in his mouth, it felt poetic somehow. Lambert's eyes rolled back into his head and his tongue lapped lazily at Jaskier's fingers.

“Yes, do you like that?” Aiden mumbled, almost too soft for Jaskier to hear. “Is that your sweet spot my sweet?”

“In the sweet summer light, it is only you who I find right; ragged and open and wanting, I am restless, don't leave me breathless; I drink you deep, forever wanting more.” Running the fingers of his other hand through Lambert's hair, Jaskier could wax poetic about Lambert's face all night. Instead of continuing, he leaned down and kissed him, swallowing more moans produced by Aiden.

“That was beautiful,” Aiden said.

“He's pretty enough to inspire any poet,” Jaskier replied. He placed one last kiss on Lambert's lips before looking up, eyes locking with Aiden's. “You should fuck him now.”

“Mmm, would you like that, my sweet?” Aiden turned his wrist and brushed Lambert's prostate again, making him jerk. “Beg for my cock.”

“Please... Aiden, fuck me now. Please. I need it.” Panting and boneless, knees barely holding him up, Lambert was already a wreck. If he truly wanted them both tonight, Jaskier could only guess the state he'd be in when they finished. He was so looking forward to it.

“He sounds so nice,” Jaskier said. “You should let him have it.”

“You're right, I think I will.” Moving up to his knees, Aiden slicked his cock and rested the head at Lambert's hole. Jaskier craned his neck to watch (it really was a lovely cock, Aiden's honey skin so beautiful) and moaned a little when he pushed in. Lambert moaned as well, but that was expected.

After a few soft thrusts, Aiden started in at a brutal pace, hands gripping Lambert's hips tight. The pounding at his ass contrasting with Jaskier's soft hands at his lips added a new dimension Lambert hadn't thought about and it felt like he'd come after the first few thrusts. “Aiden...” he moaned. Not for attention—Jaskier had that well in hand—he merely needed to cry out to one of the men filling him right now. All their attention was focused on him, safe and loved. The warm feeling of winter with castle walls strong around him crept in and Lambert's mind started to float.

Though he plowed into Lambert, Aiden was soft and gentle in other ways. Jaskier saw his hands holding tight to Lambert's hips, making sure he didn't slap forward into the log too hard. This wasn't a padded bench in some bespoke whorehouse, it was still a log in the woods no matter how many soft blankets they threw over it. But if this is where Aiden and Lambert had to meet—away from their schools and those who might not understand—then Aiden would make this campsite a palace for Lambert's pleasure.

“Aiden,” Lambert moaned into Jaskier's mouth. “Uh, fuck...” His hips stuttered and Aiden smirked. Jaskier had seen that same look across Geralt's face, or Eskel's, when they smelled come on the air rather than saw it. Even here, in the woods, no real bed around, Aiden satisfied Lambert. Jaskier knew that feeling and felt a shadow of it swirl through his own gut.

“Your turn,” Aiden whispered. He pulled out with a grunt and slumped back on the ground for a moment, not bothering to put himself away.

Jaskier opened his breeches, letting his painfully hard cock out. Lambert had just enough attention left to open his mouth, expecting that sort of treat. “No, no, my wolf,” Jaskier whispered, stroking his hair. “As Aiden said, it's my turn.”

They switched places, Aiden slumped near Lambert's head, stroking his hair, Jaskier kneeling behind his ass. Already dripping with come, he had to bite his lip. “Fuck, Aiden, you do nice work. Yet, I feel he needs a bit more.” Rescuing the bottle of oil from where Aiden dropped it in the grass, Jaskier slicked his cock and pushed in. His eyes went wide at the sheer amount of come already there, it looked at least like a load from Geralt... “Fuck, Lambert, how are you still so tight?”

“Mmm,” Lambert moaned. Aiden scratched his nails through short black hair and Jaskier knew Lambert was already half gone. But after so many years, so many winters, Jaskier knew how much he could take, and it appeared Aiden did too.

He thrust in deep, then pulled out to do it again. Entering Lambert for the first time was always a treat and Jaskier wanted to do it as many times as possible. More deep thrusts and Lambert came again, pulling Jaskier with him. Trying to keep himself together, Jaskier stumbled a little as he pulled out. His knees weren't used to kneeling in the dirt, not anymore. He brushed a hand over Lambert's cheeks, thumb sliding through the truly staggering amount of come already leaking from him. “Do you want more?” he whispered.

“Yes...” The word was soft, barely a whisper, but Jaskier and Aiden both heard it.

With a shared glance, they switched again, Jaskier touching and kissing Lambert's slack face while Aiden thrust in again, groaning at the feel of him. “You're so good for us,” Jaskier whispered, giving Lambert two of his fingers to suck on again. “We couldn't ask for a better partner. You give us everything... and I want to give you the world in return.”

At first, Jaskier didn't think he'd be able to go again, not at his still youthful but a little tired thirty, but watching Aiden pump away, Lambert moaning softly, little kitten mewls escaping every once in a while... Jaskier's cock was definitely convinced to put in another showing. Aiden finished for the second time and slumped back, Witcher stamina only going so far. “Do you want more?” Jaskier asked. Lambert nodded, and settled behind his ass, pushing in.

Outside of winter, stuck inside, eating mounds of Vesemir's good food, Jaskier didn't have more than two in him a day. He watched Aiden go a third time and didn't know if he was more in awe of Aiden's cock or Lambert's ass. When Aiden finished and fought the urge to collapse back, he didn't ask if Lambert wanted more, they had to be done for the night. He untied the ropes and nodded for Jaskier to fetch his bag. Together, they cleaned and comforted a truly floating Lambert, finally settling him between them in the tent.

Jaskier watched Aiden's eyes slide across Lambert's skin as he did the same with his fingers. “Thank you, for inviting me,” he whispered. “You didn't have to.”

Aiden shrugged. “You take care of him when I can't. Most Cats aren't allowed at Kaer Morhen—we don't keep to the code Vesemir so reveres. I am happy to know he is well taken care of in winter. He says...” Aiden trailed off, unsure of his words for probably the first time tonight. “He says the ropes make him feel like he's at Kaer Morhen, safe, held and secure. Don't tell him I told you that.”

Jaskier smirked in the dark, but he knew Aiden saw it. “Now that sounds more like him.” Jaskier spent the next few days with them before returning to the road, he had to meet Geralt in a week and might be a little late at this rate. But he would walk the harshest road if it meant he got to spend a few nights with Lambert, taking care of him out on The Path.

In their motel, Jaskier took Lambert over the arm of the sofa. They didn't have any rope, and Jaskier would never have Aiden's skill with it, but the position and the shared memory made it feel like the Cat was there with them. “Did you like it when Aiden fucked you while I watched?” Jaskier whispered into Lambert's ear, hand resting at his throat as he fucked him from behind. “Both of us together, giving you what you need. If I had one wish, I'd bring him back to us. But then I'd never let you off your knees, so good for both of us...”

* * *

They reached the coast four days into their trip, and though they were stopped in a town, the smell of the sea air hit Jaskier and triggered a wave of memory. Standing on the balcony of his parent's estate, looking out over the water, watching the boats come in. The wind ruffled his hair back then the same as it did now and Jaskier's brain stopped whirring, the gentle sounds of the water always calming.

Though they were close to town, Jaskier insisted on camping on the beach. They spent a day stripped to their underwear, playing in the waves, Lambert taking short breaks to kill a few drowners he spotted close by. “Don't tell Geralt or Eskel,” Lambert said, back in Jaskier's arms, their small fire whipping in the sea air. “If they know I let you so close to a monster, they'd kill me.”

The days of their trip passed just the same, though it never got boring. Drive a bit, stop and camp, Lambert cleans out the shore, they make love under the stars. A thousand songs, thousands of words filled Jaskier's head and he filled pages and pages of his flimsy cardboard notebooks—didn't want to bring any of the nice leather bound ones Eskel and Geralt bought him just to lose them in the sea—not just songs, but stories too. Watching Lambert ply his trade sparked something deep inside Jaskier. The Witcher was the same, the technique the same, the swords the same as all those years ago. No matter how much the Continent had changed, Lambert and the others were steadfast in their devotion and strength, as unchanging as the face of the moon.

Dripping with a combination of seawater and drowner guts, Lambert made his way back over to their camp, already ducking out of his sword belts. “These ones didn't have any treasure either. I swear, they used to in the old days. We'll find some, head back to Corvo Bianco with gold rims, give Geralt an aneurysm.”

“Lambert,” Jaskier said, looking up from his notes for the first time in hours. A drowner passed not twenty feet away and he didn't notice, but now, he looked up, a giant smile across his face. “I know what I want to do.”

He handed his notes to Lambert. “Witchers and Bards, A History of The Great Northern Wars and Their Songs.” A wide smirk broke out across Lambert's face. “Can't change the history books? Write a new one.”

Jaskier leaned forward, sealing his lips over Lambert's. “My thoughts exactly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RawrkinJD suggested Jaskier/Lambert/Aiden breeding bench, but I already had my heart set on them having sex in the woods... I'm sorry, I hope this still lived up to what I promised <3 Also, Rawrkin is amazing with ropes in her fics and I know I could never compare, so I left that super vague, please don't hold it against me.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No matter how many times Jaskier heard the L word fall from their lips, his heart fluttered and he had to hold back happy tears. They weren't like this in his first lifetime, never. As he got older, they were better about brushing against each other and mumbling “Love you,” as they turned in opposite directions, a scuffling wrestling match following soon after. They were never comfortable with loving each other. No matter how many times they said it to Jaskier, openly, without resignation, the words were too hard to say between them. And now, they said it just as openly, no sniping or teasing involved. Seven hundred years changed a lot, apparently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *clasps hands* I have been waiting for people to react to this chapter for MONTHS. Before I split this into a series, this chapter came a lot earlier, but it got pushed back as I fleshed out plot and other nonsense. I have been dying to get a reaction on this chapter since probably early July. Please don't let me down.
> 
> There is a bit of a time slip here, a few years pass within the first few paragraphs, kind of montage like. Jaskier and the others have been working and trying to open their school during that time and finally, we see the beginnings of the fruits of their labor. Thank you, as always, to my beta what_about_the_fish, who reacted wonderfully to this chapter when they read it and now I'm so happy everyone else will get to read it too.

When they returned home from their hunting trip, Jaskier buckled down to work, his _new_ life's work: writing enough history books to bury the incorrect information in all the others. Speaking at conferences wouldn't get him far, especially without a degree, publishing just seemed so insurmountable at first... but it was definitely the way forward.

Eskel was so busy with the school plans, Jaskier took over the keeping of the collection entirely. There was an odd feeling to wearing gloves while holding a journal Jaskier knew for a fact had been dropped in mud and possibly kikimore guts more than once. But these weren't just his scribblings or personal journals anymore, they were valuable primary sources he'd use to rewrite the record.

“I don't understand,” Jaskier huffed as he searched his notes for the hundredth time. He managed to misplace a crucial passage about the summer of 1272... “Half the Continent thinks you're useless, and the other half thinks you're rare cryptids that need to be given protective status or something.”

“Hmm,” Geralt grunted, unhelpful as was his way.

Some days, he worked late into the night, eyes fuzzy from trying to decipher his own ancient handwriting. “Jaskier,” Eskel purred, Lambert right behind him, chin resting on his shoulder, both of them gloriously naked except for dressing gowns. “It'll all be there tomorrow.”

Tired, and wired up on far too much coffee, Jaskier snapped. “I just got in with Point of Reference Books. They're the biggest history publisher outside Oxenfurt.” After his falling out with Oxenfurt, no Northern publishers would take his calls, but Toussaint, as the Southern capital of arts and culture, was more than happy to read new historical works, especially from such a complete collection of primary sources. “My draft needs to be submitted next week, I'm not about to miss my first fucking deadline, I don't have time to lay in bed. I didn't set out to be the Ken Burns of the Great Northern Wars, but I'm bloody going to do it right!” They retreated, leaving him to his work. Geralt appeared just before sunrise and dragged him to bed.

It seemed to take forever, but after almost a year, Jaskier's hard work paid off. He was holding his advanced copy in his hands, fingers almost shaking. The contractors were done for the day, no more banging of tools or shouted obscenities. They gathered in the library where Jaskier toiled so long and watched him open the brown package.

The lovely leather cover had a blue tint to it, deep and dark, like the sky before a storm. The silver wolf emblem shined under the title: _Witchers and Bards, First Hand Accounts of the Great Northern Wars, by Jaskier de Stael_

Jaskier released a breath he didn't know he was holding. That was it then. It didn't matter if no one bought the book, it was real and it was here. Finally, the truth was out there again, Witchers were more than the slander that robbed them of their good names; the Great Northern Wars saw atrocities on both sides, but the world could learn again, and Jaskier would teach them. Jaskier leaned back against all three of them and for the first time in months, let himself relax.

The peace of that first book didn't last long. Apparently, Oxenfurt helped him more than they realized—refusing to even discuss his manuscript gave it a hint of scandal. What kind of book did the Oxenfurt press deem unworthy for publication? People had to know, and they bought it in droves. Jaskier received several invites to discuss his “new historical revelations” at various book conventions outside the academic circles—history _fans_ , not history professors—and Point of Reference arranged a book tour for him. Less than a year after leaving Oxenfurt, Jaskier had a contract for more books and his agent was sniffing around for songs.

“The first Jaskier was a bard, I think you've mentioned you're similarly inclined? If you'd like to produce a book of his songs along with your own, the ancient and modern parallels would be most interesting...” _Interesting_ , he now understood, meant _they will sell quite well_. He started working on a book of ballads on top of all the others. And really, there were quite a few others.

Three years after leaving Oxenfurt, he had three books, and many more planned. Jaskier was working on a history of Witchers now, it only made sense, they were trying to open a school for Witchers, he needed to have texts to teach from (another project: Jaskier the author, singer, bard, and professor, sure, why not?). If he had to write them himself, well that's just what he had to do. The overview on the School of the Wolf was done, off to the publisher, release date sometime before Saovine. He wasn't bothered with the details anymore, not now that he had a crack agent to take care of the finer points. He had a book tour last summer for his _History of the Bardic Tradition_ and took Eskel with him, stopping off to visit Essi; her family collection about the first Essi had been invaluable for that book and he thanked her with a co-author credit, and a standing invite to Corvo Bianco. Maybe, for his next book tour, he could take Geralt. That is, if they weren't too busy with the school opening that always seemed right around the corner, yet still years away.

Jaskier wracked his brain. What journal was it? What fucking year? He shuffled through his notes for the third time, searching for a piece of paper he may or may not have imagined. He moved a few folders. Nothing.

Giving up his search for the sketches of the School of the Cat caravan—he could just ask Lambert to draw another—Jaskier sighed at the state of the desk. A pile of Griffin School documents lay in wait for when he was ready to start their history. First Cats, then Griffins, Bears if he found the correct journal, then reluctantly, Vipers. He was putting that one off for fear of slandering Letho a little more than he deserved.

A shout of “Pack meeting!” reverberated through the whole house and Jaskier dropped his pencil, almost tipping one of his carefully organized stacks of notes. There had been so many “pack meetings” lately, he didn't know why he was still startled when that call rang out.

Jaskier got up and walked to the kitchen. “We need a better system for that,” he grumbled. “Maybe a text? You've all had phones for years, I'm sure you can work it out.”

Eskel sat at the head of the large dining table, as he usually did, Geralt and Lambert flanked around him. If only they were in their armor, Jaskier would swear they were back at Kaer Morhen, plotting some terrible scheme to help some poor, downtrodden town rid themselves of an avaricious lord.

Instead of the normal pinched mouth and tired eyes, Eskel leaned back in his chair, shoulders more relaxed than they'd been in months, probably years. “Just got a call from Madame Baudelaire.” Madame Jami Baudelaire, the Toussaint Minister of Education, was Eskel's principle contact. Several countries and provinces were involved, but since _they_ were located in Toussaint, all students had to be transferred to the care of that government. Wards of one state to another, it was a lot of paperwork, so many steps before they even reached Eskel's eyes for consideration. “We have a start date. First roster just came through.”

He slid a piece of paper across the table for Jaskier to examine. Names of their new students—fuck, students, made it more real—and their ages. It was an e-mail, printed off from Eskel's computer as he worked out the details verbally over the phone. Jaskier thought he heard pacing through the halls, but he was so wrapped up in his own projects, he didn't investigate.

He walked around the table and looked at the list, pressed in with his wolves where he'd been for the last five years. They read the list of names.

_Clay Benoise – 8_

_Dieter Ecke – 8_

_Oliver Letta – 9_

_Stranden of Rinde – 9_

_Gib an Skellige – 9_

_Zander – 10_

“An Skellige, of Rinde...” Jaskier whispered. Naming a family or child based on their place of origin was very out of style, most people had familial names to pass down. These days, it was only used for orphans, left by their parents without even the blessing of a name. “And Zander... he doesn't have a last name at all.”

“Yes, they're all orphans. That was... the plan.” It was horrible to think about, but it had to be so. Eskel, Geralt and Lambert would never rip a child away from their family, not when they had another chance at a life. Becoming a Witcher... it had to be the final option. They were robbed of their options, no way they'd take them away from yet more children. It was poetic in a way, at least it was to Jaskier: the last three Witchers on the Continent, both continuing and breaking the cycle that made them what they were.

“Their full files are in an email on my computer, I'll print them out later, this is the overview.” Eskel ran a hand through his hair and continued the meeting. “The date is set: end of Saovine, right after Jaskier's book comes out. Not the best timing, but—”

“If my publisher wants a book tour, I'll tell them it has to wait. You've worked too hard for this for me to fuck off right at the start. I'm here, for however long you need me.”

Soft eyes crinkled into a smile. Eskel hooked an arm around Jaskier's hips, the other around Geralt. Lambert fell in, filling the rest of the hug. “We've all worked so hard,” Eskel said. The house was built, the classes and schedules set, now all they had to do was make sure the last details were in place before they got a house full of children for the first time in eight hundred years. For now, they relaxed, releasing a collective breath. They had a season and a half to prepare, but tonight was for winding down.

Jaskier made dinner to give Eskel a break, the poor wolf was so drained by all his hard work sorting through the bureaucracy of half the Continent. Jaskier went to visit his family every Yule and worked at least one shift, so his diner skills were intact. He made a mean hash brown—crispy and golden with the exact right amount of grease—add in the chocolate chip pancakes, a pig's worth of bacon and sausage, and his Witchers were happy. Breakfast for dinner was a bit of a favorite of his, maybe he should push for it more often.

Sipping his hot chocolate (another Jaskier specialty) Geralt leaned back with one arm across the back of Jaskier's chair and watched Eskel and Lambert fight over the last sausage. “Won't get many more nights like these.” He remembered the days of Kaer Morhen at its height, boys lining the dining hall tables, the smell of two hundred people—Witchers and trainees alike—filling the massive hall, everyone fighting over the last piece of bacon or potato. The roar of so many voices... Sure, they'd have ten people in one massive house, hardly a comparison, but silence as they knew it, even the relative quiet of two growling voices, was going to disappear the second those boys arrived.

“I suppose not.” Jaskier trailed his fingers up Geralt's thigh, golden eyes watching him carefully. “We really shouldn't waste any opportunity.”

Geralt smirked, opening his thighs a little wider for Jaskier to brush over the quickly rising bulge of his cock. “What do you have in mind?”

Jaskier's eyes sparkled. “Something _special_.” He leaned in and whispered into Geralt's ear. The small hitch of breath told him not only was the White Wolf interested, but he was just as excited as Jaskier.

Ever since Jaskier had Lambert watch Geralt and Eskel pushing into him at the same time, the young wolf was hooked. Any opportunity to have all three of them watching, touching or fucking him during a scene, he grabbed at it with both hands. While he only had eyes for Jaskier as he started to float, he loved Jaskier's lustful gaze watching Eskel and Geralt pound into him. The position didn't matter: spitted between them, Geralt in his ass, mouth around Eskel with Jaskier petting his hair; Geralt in his ass, Eskel on his cock while they both fucked him senseless; Eskel licking his hole while Geralt fucked it, Jaskier stroking himself off to the side, his eyes heavy with lust; Lambert wanted Jaskier to watch as he fell apart, and Jaskier was more than happy to oblige. At least once a month, Lambert begged to have Geralt and Eskel manhandling him for Jaskier's pleasure.

Getting the three of them into bed was about as difficult as falling off a log. While they technically had two bedrooms to share now, one was for sleeping, the other was for Jaskier and Lambert's collection. Nothing extreme, Lambert never needed any actual discipline, too happy to melt into Jaskier's arms and do whatever he asked (including letting Geralt and Eskel fuck him all night while Jaskier watched, such a fucking gift) but he did have a few restraints for when Lambert wanted to feel held and safe, a low padded bench for creative positions, and far too many pairs of sexy underwear that left Lambert's ass open for Jaskier to access whenever he wanted.

But Jaskier wanted them all bare tonight. He ducked into the second bedroom to grab Lambert's studded leather cuff and change into his silk pajama bottoms. They all loved the feel of the silk against their skin, but if Jaskier left them in the regular bedroom drawer, they would have rubbed them to rags by now.

He went back to the bedroom to find Lambert sandwiched between Geralt and Eskel, his eyes already a little distant. They weren't fucking yet (which would be terribly unfair with Jaskier out of the room and might earn them all some punishment) but Geralt's tongue licking into Eskel's mouth with his chin resting on Lambert's shoulder was just... fuck, if there was a better visual metaphor for the relationship between his wolves, Jaskier didn't know what it would look like. With Eskel and Geralt thoroughly caught up in one another's lips, the rest of the world fell to the wayside around them, yet they still had enough care and affection to pull Lambert in, make sure he wasn't left out in the cold.

“Mmm, what a beautiful sight. You three are so tempting, I could watch all night...” Jaskier shook the lustful fog from his brain. “But I have other plans for us.” Parting them with a look—Geralt dragged his tongue up Eskel's scarred cheek one last time before rolling away—Jaskier climbed into the bed and settled between Lambert's legs. Pushing his thighs open with his knees, pressing their chests together and rolling his hips, he let Lambert feel the silk as he snapped their play cuff in place. A shiver ran along his skin and Jaskier smiled, eyes devouring the reaction flowing through Lambert. Jaskier's lips barely brushed his mouth and Lambert sighed, inviting him to deepen the kiss.

When Jaskier kissed his fill, he sat back. “Roll over.” Lambert did as asked, presenting his ass the way Jaskier liked. With gentle pressure at the small of his back, Jaskier pushed him flat onto the bed before sliding down. He took a moment to spread Lambert's cheeks. Geralt and Eskel crowded in close, all of them appreciating that forever tight hole.

“You sure about this?” Geralt whispered, rubbing his cock against Jaskier's silk clad hip, savoring the soft fabric before he took it off.

“Yes, I think he's up for it.” Jaskier leaned down and licked across Lambert's hole, producing a shuddering gasp from the head of the bed. Lambert's arms twitched, tightening around the pillows as Jaskier did it again and again, then blew warm breath across the damp skin. More shivers followed as Jaskier licked and sucked at his hole, the muscle slowly relaxing and opening under his efforts.

“Fuck, ah, Jaskier, what—” Lambert squirmed under the attention, trying to hold his body in check. Couldn't come this early into it. “What do you—what are we doing tonight?”

“Shh, relax for now. I want you nice and relaxed.” He took a moment to shuck his silk pajamas before returning to worship Lambert's ass once again.

Geralt didn't tell Eskel what Jaskier had planned, he couldn't risk Lambert overhearing. Besides, that wasn't their roll. They were here to... he wasn't sure how to define it, even after all these years. Act as extensions of Jaskier's control over Lambert? Lambert enjoyed what they did to him, and Geralt enjoyed Jaskier directing him to please Lambert... it all worked out, he didn't need to investigate it much deeper than that.

Eskel handed Jaskier the lube when he gestured for it and they watched him open Lambert up, make him absolutely drip... After a few long minutes, Jaskier pulled his fingers out and lay across Lambert's back, shushing his whimper with a kiss to the back of his shoulder. “Now, my wolf, would you like to take all of us tonight?”

“Sure,” Lambert said, voice already a breathy purr. He thrust his hips back a little, allowing Jaskier's cock to fall into the cleft of his ass. “We've done that before.”

“No, not like this.” Jaskier kissed up the side of his neck for a moment before continuing. “I mean all of us. Inside you. At once.” Lambert and Eskel sucked in a breath of surprise. Jaskier waited, he didn't want to keep fingering Lambert and possibly influence his decision, but he couldn't keep his hands off that perfect skin, fingers tracing down scars, almost tickling but not, feeling the inhuman heat of his Witcher. “It's entirely up to you.”

“How would that... would that even work?” Lambert asked, voice low and soft. The way Jaskier said it ruled out the idea of the third in his mouth, that was very clear, he meant... His hole clenched at the mere thought.

Lambert was definitely interested, Geralt smelled it, but the logistics were a little hard to grasp. “Eskel on his back, you on top of Eskel, me behind you, Geralt behind me.” Jaskier punctuated each name with a kiss across Lambert's shoulders. His hand drifted down and found a little tension returned. “It's up to you, we don't have to. I'd be perfectly happy watching you take it from them.” All three wrapped together was his favorite sight, matched only by the sight of Geralt getting pounded by Eskel, white hair everywhere, covering them both as they moved together.

After another moment, Lambert nodded. “We can try.”

“Thank you, remember your safeword?”

“Yes, Speartip.”

“Good.” Jaskier spent another moment working Lambert open, letting his fingers explore every inch of his hole, reminding himself of the most sensitive spots. “Eskel, lay down.”

He fell into position, pulling Lambert down on top of him for a few more kisses as Jaskier slicked lube down his cock. It felt like far too much, Jaskier's fingers slipping more than stroking, then Eskel remembered exactly _what_ they were trying to do here. “You up for this?” he whispered between licks across Lambert's adam's apple.

A small nod, he didn't want to interrupt Eskel's mouth from the fine work it was doing. “Knew there had to be a way for all four of us to be together at the same time. Of course Jaskier figured it out. I don't mind using my ass as the test round.”

“Quiet my wolf, that's enough talk.” Jaskier never really ordered him to do anything, the way he said it—so soft and indulgent—Lambert couldn't help but follow whatever direction their lark gave him. He leaned his head forward into the crook of Eskel's shoulder and let familiar hands rub over his back, soothing away any tension they found.

When Jaskier slid Eskel's cock inside him, it was a surprise for them both. Eskel wasn't used to being positioned like this, moved around like a doll. He gave an experimental roll with his hips, thrusting deeper into Lambert and moaning at the absolute gush of lube his cock pushed out. “Fuck, got enough slick?”

“We better,” Jaskier said.

Two fingers brushed against Eskel's cock, sliding up beside him and stretching Lambert. He held tight, carding his fingers through Lambert's hair. “Mmm, love you, little wolf,” Eskel whispered.

“Love you too,” Lambert whispered back.

Jaskier added a third finger and had to hold them there for a moment, too distracted to thrust. No matter how many times he heard the L word fall from their lips, his heart fluttered and he had to hold back happy tears. They weren't like this in his first lifetime, never. As he got older, they were better about brushing against each other and mumbling “Love you,” as they turned in opposite directions, a scuffling wrestling match following soon after. They were never comfortable with loving each other. No matter how many times they said it to Jaskier, openly, without resignation, the words were too hard to say between them. And now, they said it just as openly, no sniping or teasing involved. Seven hundred years changed a lot, apparently.

Gathering himself again, Jaskier pulled his fingers out and lay across Lambert's back, resting his head over his left shoulder, where his heart was the strongest, the head of his cock brushing Lambert's hole. “Geralt won't be in all the way, but it will be a stretch. Be sure to tell us if you're uncomfortable or if there's any pain.”

“I will.”

Legs squeezing, he was almost completely on top of Lambert's back, his calves already straining as he pushed into the bed to half hold his own weight on the balls of his feet. One hand gripping tight to a shoulder for balance, he had the other behind the head of his cock, pushing in. Lambert groaned, hole fluttering around the second intrusion. This was nothing they hadn't done before, but with the way their bodies healed so quickly, he still felt the stretch. Eskel did his part running his hands through Lambert's hair, licking at his ear, whispering encouraging words so soft Jaskier didn't catch them.

When he bottomed out—Lambert's body squeezing him against Eskel's thick cock, two heart beats making him twitch and want to come right there—Jaskier rested his head between Lambert's shoulder blades as he tried to gather himself. He was usually a spectator when Geralt and Eskel took him together, he forgot how intense it was to have another cock sharing a space so intimately... and they had one more to go.

“Geralt,” Jaskier managed to breathe out. “Your turn. Careful now.”

The squish of lube made Lambert shudder between them. Eskel continued soothing and rubbing him, kissing his hair. “Geralt's going to make it so good for you... like always.”

“Y-yeah,” Lambert whispered, trying to keep the shake out of his voice. “Come on p-pretty boy, I've got room for one... one more.” Geralt's hand settled on Jaskier's back and he felt the head of a _t_ _hird_ shaft start to push in...

Like Jaskier predicted, they didn't actually fit all the way, but it was close enough, with at least half of Geralt's cock pushed together with theirs, stretching Lambert so wide. Eskel was the only one with a solid enough grip to thrust. He rolled his hips slowly, pushing them all into Lambert. The effort of all three drained him, and Lambert was little more than a rag doll across Eskel's chest, but the deep moans they pulled from him definitely showed his enjoyment.

His body barely tightened as he came, muscles too tired to clench around the girth inside him. Eskel stopped thrusting and Lambert shook his head. “No, k-keep going. All of you... fucking fill me up.”

Lust shot through Jaskier. He'd seen their come splashed across Lambert's skin, he'd had three loads of Witcher on his own body, but the thought of it dripping from that used, worn out hole... his hips canted forward with the need to thrust. “Eskel, hurry the fuck up,” he growled out between his teeth.

It did not take much longer. Eskel growled, his cock twitched and a gush of come surrounded Jaskier, sending him over as well. Both jerking against him, Geralt followed a second later, adding his load to the mess inside Lambert and on the sheets, hell, they were all covered in a combination of come, lube and sweat, and Jaskier had never felt more satisfied after sex, more fulfilled. He wanted to smother Lambert with kisses, squeeze the breath from Geralt with an embrace, and drown Eskel in his chest. He wanted them all in this bed, forever.

But Lambert needed care and Jaskier quickly came back down to earth. Geralt pulled out first, followed by Jaskier, then Eskel. Lambert was half exhausted on Eskel's chest, come squeezing out of his hole, the muscle taking a little longer than usual to wink shut. Jaskier's cock gave a twitch, but they were all truly done for the night. He smoothed a hand down Lambert's back, whispering softly, “You did so well, you were amazing, my wolf.” He couldn't stop touching Lambert, caressing his back, combing his fingers through sweaty hair... it was like every part of Jaskier was connected to the exhausted, blissed out form still on top of Eskel. “I love you,” Jaskier whispered. “I love you, I love you.”

Geralt was the only one coherent enough to really clean up. He emerged from the bathroom with several wet clothes, tossing one at Eskel and handing another to Jaskier, wiping himself down as he watched Jaskier clean Lambert with soft, reverent fingers. “Wazit good for you?” Lambert slurred, half out of it, his eyes unfocused and distant.

“Yes,” Jaskier whispered. “Now let me take care of you.” He tended to Lambert's sensitive areas, making sure he was clean, uninjured, and applying soothing salve before they all settled into bed. Eskel held tight to Lambert as Jaskier arranged them. He liked to look into Jaskier's eyes when he came out of it, and the more warm bodies in the bed around him, the better.

They fell into an exhausted sleep, only disturbed a little when Lambert stirred before sunrise. Jaskier gentled him back to sleep with kisses. Lambert reached back and groped over the bed, only satisfied when he found Geralt's arm and dragged the heavy limb across his hip. With Jaskier in front of him, Eskel behind, and Geralt behind Eskel, he fell asleep again with the last of his pack, a pack that was about to get a little bigger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That is the most tender, most loving sex scene I have ever written. And it's triple penetration, a thing I didn't think I'd be able to work out, until I found a way. i am a happy smut peddler today :)


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gates were open, and Geralt paced back and forth across the courtyard. Though Eskel was Headmaster of the new School of the Wolf (School for Witchers still sounded stupid, Geralt refused to call it that) they all agreed Geralt should welcome the initiates. After all these years, he was still the most visible Witcher in the world, the White Wolf was a name that stuck around, even if it was just a whisper of a rumor in a poor rural town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did some research about foster care for this, not a lot because it made me sad, but also not too much because this isn't our world, this is the Continent. Things are extra shit there sometimes. If you feel I got something wrong, I don't mind talking about it, but I feel this is how I want to represent the system the Witchers have to work within.
> 
> Thank you to my beta, what_about_the_fish, for helping me with this story. The boys show up in this chapter and I hope everyone enjoys the Witchers to be <3

The early autumn air was crisp, still holding onto the heat of summer, but the smell of rotting leaves as the trees began to feel the cold was already building on the air. For all the things that seemed to go wrong in their lives, Destiny threw them a gift every now and then: starting the new boys training in the fall to prepare for the cold of winter was perfect. If they tried starting at the height of summer, heat stroke might take the unhardened bodies much faster than anticipated.

The gates were open, and Geralt paced back and forth across the courtyard. Though Eskel was Headmaster of the new School of the Wolf (School for Witchers still sounded stupid, Geralt refused to call it that) they all agreed Geralt should welcome the initiates. After all these years, he was still the most visible Witcher in the world, the White Wolf was a name that stuck around, even if it was just a whisper of a rumor in a poor rural town.

Jaskier longed to massage those tight shoulders, but they had to stay professional. They already got a side eye from the Ministry of Education's School Inspector when she asked about the sleeping accommodations at the school. “Four dorm rooms upstairs for students, two professor dorms on the first floor for us, and a guest room for any guest lecturers,” Eskel said. He had notes and bullet points but after so many years of memorization standing between him and death, he didn't need to reference the information.

The inspector arched an eyebrow. “Two professor dorms for four professors?”

Eskel didn't have an answer planned, but found one quickly. “Eight hundred and fifty years living together, and you think we don't know how to share a bedroom?”

They passed the final inspection with flying colors, so either she bought the half truth, or didn't want to call them on it. Professional capacity aside, not many people wanted to argue with a Witcher.

The honk of a horn shocked them all out of their individual fretting. A mini bus with the Toussaint government seal across the hood pulled up the drive and through their gates, stopping just short of the obvious training area. A man holding a clipboard climbed out. Geralt couldn't help but notice the badge and the gun strapped to his hip. They had cops handing off wards of the state now?

Another man, this one unarmed, followed him. “Hello, I'm Mason Traivaller from Social Services, we spoke on the phone?”

He extended a hand towards Geralt, who flicked his gaze towards Eskel. “You want the Headmaster, Eskel.”

“Ah, thank you.” The social worker crossed the courtyard to get Eskel to sign some more documents, talking in hushed tones.

Geralt tuned them out (Eskel would tell them any new information they needed) and turned his attention to the six boys as they climbed off the bus. All skinny and scraggly, not a single one looked the correct weight. No signs of abuse, but Geralt imagined there was never enough food to go around at the orphan homes that still dotted the Continent. Those were the kind of kids they were sure to get—too troubled and angry for the good care homes, not bad enough to ship off to prison.

As soon as they were off the bus, they all fanned out to get some air, black plastic trash bags clutched in their hands or thrown over their shoulders, the smallest boy dragged his bag in the dirt, too tired or too underfed to lift it. Geralt had seen his fair share of orphans over the years, and while this was a lot better than children simply dying in the streets, telling a kid to put their only belongings in a trash bag was its own kind of inhuman.

He heard Jaskier whispering to Lambert, “Oh, I'll have to do their laundry right away. Don't want their clothes to smell like those bags for long...” Geralt installed another three washers in the laundry room for added capacity. Looks like that capacity was going to be tested tonight.

The social worker finished with Eskel and walked back to the bus, stopping in front of the boys. “I'll be back in a week for a check in, the school has my number if any problems come up.” His lightly reproachful tone spoke volumes: problems _with_ the kids, not problems _for_ the kids. The social worker waved at Eskel and got back on the bus, followed by the man with the gun, provincial sheriff probably, had to monitor any transfer of wards, government had to cover their ass somehow.

“He had me sign for them,” Eskel whispered, just loud enough for Geralt's ears to pick it up. “Like they were fucking couriers delivering a package.”

Geralt took a deep steadying breath. They knew this going in, they'd get the kids who didn't want to go to military academies, too damaged and broken to touch a gun, but maybe a sword given time. Others still saw that as weakness, but they knew better. He exhaled and cleared his throat.

“Over here!” he called, loud enough for his voice to carry, but not a shout, he didn't want that to be the first thing these boys remembered of Corvo Bianco. “Make a line in front of me.” Shuffling and staggering after who knows how long on that bus, they all stood in front of him. Not the straightest, most regimental line, but it would do. He passed his eyes over them all, making sure they saw the gleaming yellow gaze. A few mouths fell open in shock, one boy stepped back.

Geralt walked to the end of the line, stopping in front of a boy who looked like a strong wind might knock him over. Sad blue eyes flicked up to him, then dropped again. “What's your name?” Geralt asked.

“Ollie. Ollie Letta.”

Geralt nodded, committing the name and face to memory. “Ollie.” He stepped towards the next boy, this one smaller than the first. “What's your name?”

Brown eyes peered up at him through too long bangs from a head of windblown brown hair. “Clay,” he said, barely a whisper.

Geralt went down the line, remembering each boy's name. “Dieter.” Green eyes contrasted starkly with his dark skin, glowing like a cat in the night. “Gib.” A shock of red hair with a smattering of freckles. “Stranden.” The only one with any sort of muscle on him, good wide shoulders too.

When Geralt got to the end of the line, he encountered the first boy to glare directly at him and not look away. He held his arms crossed over his chest, the scowl on his face falling just short of actual malice. “What's your name?” Geralt asked.

“Can't you guess? You heard all the others.”

“I want you to tell me.” The boy said nothing. Geralt waited. He'd wait all fucking day if necessary.

The boy glared, lip curling. “Zander,” he finally growled out. Gray eyes snapped away from Geralt, glaring across the courtyard.

“Zander,” Geralt repeated. He looked down the line, Ollie, Clay, Dieter, Gib, Stranden and Zander, running their faces and names through his memory once again. With each boy memorized, he stepped back and clasped his hands behind his back, squaring his shoulders the way Vesemir always stood when instructing a class.

“My name is Geralt of Rivia. I will be your sword and combat instructor. I do not want to be your friend, I am your teacher, and I can guarantee, all of you will spend most of your time hating all of us, but this isn't like any school or institution you've been in before.” His eyes flicked up to the gate and the boys turned to follow his gaze. “There are no guards here, no locks, no fences. That wall isn't to keep you in, it's to keep the world out. You are not here to be punished, you are here to grow into good, strong men, worthy of the name, Witcher. Over eight hundred years ago, we were tasked with defending the Continent, and now, we will pass those skills on to you.”

He nodded to Lambert and Eskel in turn. “This is Lambert, combat and potions. This is Headmaster Eskel, Signs and meditation. And the human is Jaskier de Stael,” Jaskier stepped closer and bowed to the boys, his smile warm and inviting, “he'll cover anything else. Music, books, history. Now everyone, inside. Training starts at dawn tomorrow.”

“Dawn?” one of them whispered under his breath as soon as Geralt's back was turned. Sounded like Zander.

“Yes, dawn.” Back to the boys, he smirked. “Something you should know. Witchers have excellent hearing.”

Geralt stalked towards the house. It took a beat, but the boys fell in behind him, suddenly walking much closer to each other. After closing the gate, Eskel and Lambert brought up the rear. Jaskier went to Geralt's side and as soon as they entered the house, he whirled around, walking backwards as he picked up the tour.

“Library and classroom on the left as you enter, kitchen is down the hall.” They all followed, shuffling carefully through the large house. With the walls removed, the kitchen opened into the dining area, which in turn morphed into the living room, sun streaming through the windows. A few of the boys glanced at the TV before letting their eyes wander back towards the kitchen, the bowl of fruit set out on the dining table, cupboards stuffed with food. Geralt heard more than one stomach growl. Lunch next, definitely.

He pointed out each bathroom as they passed on their way through the house and up the stairs. Clay wrinkled his nose. “Why you have so many shitters?”

Behind the group, now huddled so close, the boys were bumping into one another, Lambert chuckled. “When you're covered in necrophage bile or wyvern shit, you'll learn to appreciate a good bath.” A shiver ran through all six of them, clearly his intent.

Jaskier glared at Lambert, then kept going. “Music room is here, not a requirement but I hope you do investigate, see if you want to pick up the guitar or just read quietly while I play. Can't spend all day fighting...

“Dorm rooms. Three to a room.” A low grumble passed through the group and Jaskier came to a stop, rounding on them and making eye contact with all six. “Let me tell you something they won't: make friends with each other. I don't care if you've never met before today, or if you already don't like the look of someone. Put it behind you, make friends. The life of a Witcher used to be a lonely thing. Some of the other schools taught their students to distrust one another the same way they distrusted the world. The School of the Wolf has always been a pack, we trust our brothers in arms. Make. Friends.”

The light tone of warning vanished as quick as it appeared and Jaskier looked over at Eskel. “I think that's all for now, Headmaster Eskel. Tour of the grounds tomorrow before training?”

“Yes, I think so,” Eskel grumbled. “Pick your rooms. No fighting.”

The crinkle of trash bags and the thump of ill fitting sneakers filled the hall as they poked their heads into the dorm rooms. None of the boys had many belongings and everything was stored away quickly. Eskel ordered them downstairs for lunch while Jaskier gathered their laundry. The sooner they felt clean and refreshed, the sooner they'd relax... he hoped.

All four washing machines spinning, Jaskier went to the kitchen, following the sounds of clinking plates and slurping. Geralt, and Lambert stood just inside the kitchen, eyes on the dining table, wide open in shock. The remains of quite a large meal littered the table; a plate of sandwiches was nothing but crumbs, the two largest bags of chips the store had were empty, as was the jumbo sized jar of pickles that was full just this morning. Eskel delivered another plate of sandwiches, then watched it disappear before his eyes.

“I didn't think they'd be this bad,” Geralt mumbled. “None of them are the right weight.”

“We knew it was going to be hard.” All the kids deeply involved in their food, Jaskier risked a quick squeeze to Geralt's hand. “We'll figure it out together. We will not let these children down, not again.” Geralt nodded, squeezing his fingers. Yes, they could manage as long as they stuck together. It worked out the first time around.

* * *

They spent the rest of the day allowing the boys to explore the house—supervised, of course—most piling around the TV but Gib and Dieter gravitating to the library. After a heavy dinner of enough pasta to feed an army, they all tripped upstairs and fell into bed. Eskel went up to do a headcount before returning to the living room, where the other three were sprawled after the emotionally draining day.

Jaskier shifted between Geralt's legs, making room for Eskel to squish in with them. With more than enough seating, they didn't need to all sit on the same couch... but they really did, after a day of sizing up the boys who would become Witchers, they definitely needed the closeness. Geralt had his legs stretched out, Jaskier and Lambert spread across them. Eskel squished in at the end, creating a bookend to Geralt's presence, as he always did.

They sat in silence for a few moments before Jaskier had the energy to lean back and rub against Geralt with some intent. “Shall we retire as well? I don't think I'm up for anything too intense, but I can definitely provide oral stimulation all around, I think.”

“Mmm, tempting...” Geralt ran the backs of his knuckles over Jaskier's cheek. “But no, we're staying out here for tonight. Need to keep watch.” His eyes flicked to Eskel. “You want to rest first?”

Eskel shrugged and stood up. “Sure, why not.” He leaned down to kiss them all before sitting next to the piano, kneeling on the floor, hands on top of his thighs in their meditation pose. He closed his eyes and bowed his head, tuning the world out as he tuned into himself.

“What?” Jaskier asked.

“Have to make sure none of them try to run,” Lambert said. “You should sleep, we'll keep watch.”

While Jaskier was more tired than he expected, he was a teacher in this school the same as them. “No, I'll wait with you.” After all, _he_ didn't have to get up for morning training, just afternoon lectures... With one meditating to rest as well as possible, and the other three awake, ears tuned to the bedrooms, they passed most of the night in relative comfort, simply enjoying the silent touches after a day being professional and a little distant.

Around three in the morning, Lambert and Eskel heard movement. With Geralt meditating, Jaskier dozing in Eskel's lap, Lambert sighed. “Surprised they waited this long. I'll go see who it is. My money's on Zander.”

He followed the clumsy footsteps towards the back of the house. Sounded like the far room, next to the chimney. Lambert went out to the back yard and stood under the correct window, waiting for the boy to reach the ground. It was Zander, of course, he had that look about him. The boy saw Lambert waiting and growled under his breath, climbing the rest of the way to the ground and dropping down right in front of him.

“What?” he snapped.

“Good climber,” Lambert said. “Useful skill, but I'm better than you. I can teach you. And I can guarantee, you'll learn more here with us than on your own out there.”

“Yeah? How do you know?” Zander snarled back, eyes flicking around, trying to see if he could get by and over the wall without getting caught.

Lambert stepped aside, gesturing him to the ten foot wall surrounding the house. Geralt always grumbled about how it wasn't tall enough, not a proper keep, until Eskel reminded him of the permits and expense that a thirty foot wall would actually need. “You wanna go? Go. Just so you know, there's a hill on the other side. About a forty foot drop.” Zander stayed in place, his hands balled into fists.

“You don't want to be here, I get it. No one I've ever met wanted to be a Witcher, most didn't have a choice.” School of the Cat was an interesting beast. Taking orphans off the street, offering them a different life... kind of what they were doing now. Oh, if Aiden could see what Eskel and the White Wolf were up to now, he'd probably laugh himself off his funeral pyre.

“Your sales pitch sucks,” he mumbled, angry and tired, glaring at Lambert like he wanted him dead.

Lambert shrugged. “The job sucks. But it's a roof over your head, a full belly, and a shit ton of skills you can use anywhere on the Continent. We're training you to be a Witcher, but you don't have to be. Use the tracking skills we teach you to hunt; Eskel has a forge, learn blacksmithing; hell, Geralt will probably turn you all into pretty decent mechanics. We give options here. Beats a care home I'd say. And,” he added, watching the anger rise in Zander's too frail shoulders. He was the tallest of them all, but still so skinny. They had a lot of work to do before winter. “If someone hits you here, you get to hit back.” Zander's cheek twitched in the start of a smile until he schooled it away. That was enough to keep him here for tonight. “As long as it's during training, can't fight for no reason. Now get back inside.”

The boy went to follow him into the house and Lambert stopped, chuckling softly and shaking his head. “No, go back up the way you came.” He nodded towards the second floor window. “You climbed down, you can climb back up. First lesson, you get it special before anyone else.”

After Zander realized Lambert was serious, he cursed under his breath and turned back to the house, trying to find the footholds he used on the way down. Lambert wasn't cruel, he stayed to make sure the kid didn't fall and break his neck. He listened to the window close and Zander crawl back into bed, the other boys whispering, asking what the fuck happened.

He walked back into the house to find Jaskier pacing, Geralt was done meditating, lounging on the couch with Eskel, both of them watching Jaskier. Clearly, they gave up on trying to get him to rest. “Is everything alright?” Jaskier asked.

Lambert calmed him with a hand at the small of his back, thumb rubbing small circles. “Yeah, got Zander back into bed. Be interested to see who tries to sneak out next.”

Two nights later, Gib tried his luck. Too bad for him his room was one window over and he didn't have the chimney to brace on. More than exhausted from morning training, his grip faltered. Geralt caught him as he fell, setting him on the ground and crouching down as the boy fumed, his cheeks red in embarrassment. “Why do you care?” he finally hissed. “No one cares about us, what makes you so different than the rest of them?”

Geralt shrugged, staring out at the back yard. It had only been three days and already he missed getting to fuck Jaskier in the bathhouse. With a house full of children—even a large house—privacy was at a premium. Thank fuck Eskel found a muffling charm for their bedrooms, or Geralt feared they'd never have sex again. Their new roles were exhausting, but worth it as soon as he saw Clay fall in training and climb to his feet himself, legs shaking but determined to finish the run. That's why they wanted to do this, because they were these boys so long ago, and they were given a chance to prove themselves.

“My mother left me on the side of a road when I was four years old,” Geralt said. Gib sucked in a breath and Geralt tried not to smile, knowing he had the boy's attention. “I was promised to a Witcher. That's how we did it in those days, the Law of Surprise... It's really shit. I wanted my mother so badly at first, cried for her in the night. Until I stopped. I started learning, getting strong. The world hated me for what I was becoming, but I wasn't weak anymore, I could take care of myself if need be. You think you can take care of yourself now, we'll teach you how to actually do it.”

“I don't know who my mother is,” Gib whispered. “They found me on a dock in Skellige. Didn't even have a name.” This gave Geralt pause. Orphans in Skellige were often adopted by a clan (the islands still clung to the old ways in some respects) but if no one stepped up for the baby found at the docks... fuck, Gib might be a harder nut to crack than the others.

“You can have a new one, if you like. Geralt of Rivia wasn't my name, Vesemir, our teacher, gave it to me.” Geralt stood up and Gib struggled to his feet, muscles aching from running laps in the mornings. They walked back into the house, Geralt catching the kid as he stumbled a little on bruised muscles.

Things got better after that. Zander and Gib seemed to spread the word that this new place wasn't half bad. The boys still cursed, had tantrums, refused to train. Without the threat of a beating, Geralt's usual recourse was making them run the walls. All of them. They stumbled and fell, not used to the physical nature of training. “And this is the light stuff,” Eskel assured Jaskier as they looked across a library full of sleeping boys, every single one of them snoring through his history lesson.

At the end of the first week, the social worker checked in. His mouth fell open when he saw all six of them at the dining table, sleepily working through lunch. “None of them bolted?”

Eskel was shut away in the second bedroom, which served as the Headmaster's office until Geralt finished renovating the barn (the only outbuilding they hadn't already found a use for, it seemed as good a place as any for files and Eskel's “official” office) leaving Jaskier the only one to greet the social worker for the moment. “Well, we would have reported it if they had,” Jaskier said, the question taking him off guard.

The man shrugged. “You'd be surprised. Some military schools don't report as well as they should. That's what you're categorized as, a training academy or military school.”

The inspection was brief—all boys accounted for, no suspicious injuries outside the normal scraped knees of childhood—and the social worker left. He'd be back in a month. Lambert and Geralt walked over from the kitchen and Jaskier shook his head. “For all the shit we went through to get approved for this, they don't seem to care much.” It was really starting to bother him. Yes, these boys were hard cases, but how could the agency tasked with their well being treat them so callously?

“System's overloaded,” Geralt said. “They're probably pissed we can't take more.”

Though training ran them ragged in the morning, and they fought sleep through Jaskier's lessons, most of them stirred at night, unable to sleep. They weren't trying to run anymore. The strange noises of a new place, dark shadows they weren't used to yet, it set their nerves on edge when they needed to rest.

“They're not babies,” Geralt grumbled. Lambert and Eskel went to the other room to spend some time together, both of them very drained by the boys and by Geralt's constant planning. “We can't do what Vesemir did—put a doll in the crib that smelled like Kaer Morhen so they could get used to the scent. They won't respond to that.”

“Mmm, they sleep well enough in my music lessons.” Jaskier did have a ballad he was working on to go with one of his new books about the history of Kaer Morhen, more of a lullaby, not much to it, but maybe...

After lights out the next night, Jaskier sat in the hall outside the music room, far enough away from the dorm rooms so he didn't cast unfamiliar shadows under the door, but close enough to be heard. He strummed his guitar a few times, soft and melodic, then began to sing.

_Up in the mountain, mountain high,_

_Lean your head back and stretch to the sky,_

_Hear the wind blow dear, hear the wind blow,_

_Feel the cold dear, feel the snow._

_White mountains we left behind, behind,_

_Greener pastures we needed to find,_

_The Path still called with its siren song,_

_Leading the wolves along, along._

_Down in the valley, valley low,_

_Hold your arms wide and feel the sun's glow,_

_Feel the sun dear, feel the sunshine,_

_Let it warm your heart and mine._

_The mountain so far, so far away,_

_I hope to see it again some day,_

_But green fields we now do roam,_

_Here in our southern home._

_Up in the mountain, mountain high,_

_Lean your head back and stretch to the sky._

_Down in the valley, valley low,_

_Hold your arms wide and feel the sun's glow._

He continued playing, repeating the song over and over until Geralt quietly padded up the stairs and beckoned him down. At the bottom of the stairs, he wrapped his arms around Jaskier's waist and pulled him close, guitar hanging at his side. “They're all asleep,” he whispered. It had been almost two weeks and this was the first time they'd all found peace in the night.

A warmth spread through Jaskier's chest. “We're doing the right thing.”

“Yes, I believe we are.” Geralt held tight to Jaskier, letting him have the moment of happiness. He didn't mention that, now they started to sleep, they'd have more energy for training. As soon as they got used to the calisthenics—running, push ups, sit ups, other strengthening exercises, footwork—they hadn't even started sword drills—and got stronger, they'd start to run again. And this time, they might actually get off the property before Lambert or Geralt brought them back.

There was a long road ahead of them to be sure, but Geralt let Jaskier have his small moment of triumph.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing the traditionally "irresponsible" Lambert as a teacher with giant responsibilities, pleases me to no end. He seems like one of those goof offs that's actually really good under pressure, so I enjoyed writing him with the boys in this fic.
> 
> I have at least one song in me per big series, and this is it, enjoy the Corvo Bianco Lullaby.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt glanced at Lambert and Eskel, each standing at the end of the line, their chest swelling with pride. Ask them a hundred years ago, and they'd all give their left nut not to be called “Master Witcher,” but now that they had the chance to make a new way through, the idea of passing on their legacy had a pride to it. For the first time in a very long time, Geralt thought of Vesemir without a hint of sadness, how proud he was of the adults they became, protectors of the Continent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to get to some serious training for the boys! I mentioned that they're going to teach them potions and Signs, and yes, I know the mutations make Witchers able to use Signs... but they're cool and I wanted to use them. So I did. And regarding potions: there is a starting quest in the Witcher 3 where you make a dose of Swallow for a dying human woman to cure her. I figured it can be a "weakened" potion for emergencies. And they have oils for their blades to help against different monsters, they'd still have to no stuff even if they can't take most of the traditional Witcher potions. This is what I'm going with.
> 
> Thank you so much to my beta, what_about_the_fish for all your help on this story <3

It took a few months to fatten them up, start building muscle. Towards the end of winter, just as Jaskier started feeling confident as a teacher—Stranden wanted to take up the piano, Clay strummed at Jaskier's guitar when they had free time—they started bolting again. Now, they were strong enough to make it over the wall.

Lambert, the record holder for semi-successful escapes from Kaer Morhen, assured them the boys weren't actually trying to escape. “They've got food and good beds here, they don't want to leave. They want to test themselves and us. After I recovered from each round of mutations, I broke out just to see how far I could get. They want to know how their muscles work now. Probably the first time in their lives they've ever felt strong.”

“Yeah, I remember those escapes,” Eskel grumbled. Geralt and Eskel were usually tasked to bring him back. “No fucking clue why Vesemir thought he was special...” Lambert lunged at him, snarling playfully until Eskel kissed him. Sitting at the desk in the big bedroom grading the latest history exams, Jaskier shook his head at the both of them. Geralt was on guard duty in the living room.

Jaskier felt his eyes grow heavy with sleep, the last of the history exams almost finished... oh how he wanted to join Lambert and Eskel in their wrestling match, which had morphed into Eskel's thick cock rutting against Lambert's thigh, free hand groping for the lube. Throwing his pen down, Jaskier stood up to fetch said lube and exact sexual favors for fetching it, when Geralt's muffled voice sounded from the living room.

Jaskier didn't hear the words, Geralt kept his voice low so he didn't wake the other boys, but he knew the cadence by now: “We got a runner.”

“Ugh.” Lambert hung his head and kissed Eskel's shoulders one last time before rolling off the bed. “If it's fucking Gib again...”

Pulling on his pants and shrugging into a shirt, he opened the door to find Geralt standing there. “It's Gib again.”

Lambert groaned. “Fine. He usually heads towards the south fields anyway...” Another part of Geralt's renovations had been buying back some of the land he sold years ago. When the town and the workers' houses moved farther away from the once vineyard, the surrounding land was left open, developers tried to sell it for business, but no one wanted to be that close to the fortress full of Witchers. The field was perfect for training with Signs... if they all stopped running away long enough to be trusted outside the walls. Lambert waved goodnight to them all and headed out to find their lost pup.

Without his chosen bed partner, Eskel got dressed as well and took over the watch in the living room, leaving Geralt and Jaskier alone in the bedroom. Jaskier melted into Geralt's embrace like he had a thousand times before, though not recently. Between teaching classes, putting the finishing touches on his History of School of the Cat, and composing here and there, Jaskier was flat out. They all were, no time for more intimacy than sleepy, snuggly love making in the big bed. Most of Lambert's toys were untouched for weeks. Jaskier knew they were busy for a good reason, but it did start to wear on them all...

“We shouldn't...” he mumbled even as Geralt kissed down his neck. “Not until Lambert's back. Can't leave Eskel without backup.”

“Shush,” Geralt whispered and dropped to his knees, pulling Jaskier's pajama bottoms down. The silky fabric caught on his cock for a brief second, making it bob up and down once it was finally freed. “Let me take care of you.” Hands rubbed the firm globes of Jaskier's ass, soft lips and breath ghosting across the head of his cock.

“Fuck,” Jaskier sighed.

* * *

While Lambert didn't advise the boys to jump over the back wall, he was fine doing so. He knew how to drop and roll, using his momentum to come to a safe stop before rolling up to his feet again and beginning his pursuit. Gib had to get over the front wall where it was lowest, by the gate, then run all the way around the property. Lambert waited a few minutes before hopping the back wall, giving him a good head start, it was no fun if he caught them too soon.

As soon as he dropped to the other side of the wall, he saw a small form sitting at the bottom of the hill. Well that was... new. They usually didn't _wait_ for him. Since Lambert was the resident expert in breaking out of Kaer Morhen, it was mostly his job to fetch the boys when they ran. It was a game for him—see how far they got, see how much of their training they could use without help. But Gib just... sat there. He didn't even try to run.

Lambert walked down to the bottom of the hill and sat next to him. “I'm not trying to leave,” Gib said before Lambert asked. “This place is good—better than anywhere I've ever stayed—but it's hard for me. At night... Inside. Walls, I don't...” A shiver ran through him and Lambert gave him a moment to recover.

Each boy came with a disturbingly thick file. They all read the information, familiarizing themselves with the individual trauma coming their way. A psychologist from Beauclair came every two months for a group therapy session (Eskel's idea, they didn't have a full psychologist on staff and Jaskier's music therapy training only went so far) and she said the boys were settled nicely, but a few remaining issues presented every once in a while. Gib was in a particularly strict environment before he came to them, a juvenile detention center masquerading as a summer camp for underprivileged boys. What should have been a wide open space with room to run had barbed wire. They all knew he'd have trouble with the walls. Lambert was just surprised it took this long to get to him.

“The walls suck, I know, but they're not there to keep you in, they keep the world away from us,” he said.

“Yeah, that's what Jaskier says in history class. Humans distrusted the mutations they forced upon Witchers, and without the high walls of a keep, they wouldn't be able to train in peace. I get it. Doesn't mean I have to like it.”

“Mmm, at least you're paying attention to Jaskier.” While Geralt wanted to take the boys outside the walls—longer runs over changing terrain, camping and survival skills—they couldn't risk it until spring at least. With the last wisps of winter chill, the boys (still a little on the skinny side) might freeze. There had to be a way to take them out of the courtyard, get the same experience they all got from running across the mountain and through the Morhen Valley. Lambert wasn't suggesting building a facsimile of the Killer, but...

“I know Toussaint is warmer than most places in the North, but dawn training in the winter will still freeze you all outside the courtyard, those walls dull the wind more than you know. If you can hold out until spring, I'll talk to Geralt about getting outside Corvo Bianco a little more. Maybe have Eskel set up a camping trip come early summer.” He nudged Gib with his elbow. “And you should talk to Jaskier. He'd love to give guitar lessons outside, he eats that shit up.”

Gib smirked a little, they all did when Lambert swore in front of them. Geralt dropped the occasional “fuck” in training, and Eskel was always professional with them, their restrained Headmaster, but Lambert was the one to casually swear any time of day. It made the boys feel more grown up, like they weren't being treated like babies or invalids... They hadn't started combat or potions yet, so Lambert mostly helped with morning training, his easy style a good contrast to Geralt's overly perfect form. He brought a little levity to the stern face of the White Wolf and the boys started trusting them both, so Gib trusted Lambert with this.

“Thanks,” he grumbled, then started to climb to his feet.

Lambert didn't follow, instead, he leaned back, arms pillowed under his head as he looked at the stars. “We can stay as long as you want. Fresh air is nice.”

After a moment of consideration, Gib pulled the coat tighter around himself and sat back down, a little closer to Lambert this time, trying to get some of his warmth. Lambert did not remind him that morning calisthenics started in less than three hours (he was nice, not a saint) that was a lesson the boys needed to learn. Becoming a Witcher gave them a new freedom, the freedom to set their own rules, their own schedule, but also the responsibility to keep themselves in good physical condition. Gib might be a little tired tomorrow morning, but at least he'd learn: if he wanted to take night walks, they had to end at a decent time.

“We need a ropes course,” Lambert announced at the next pack meeting, which all happened right after the boys went to bed. A Witcher had more senses than most, but keeping an eye on six possible flight risks was a challenge. They didn't try to sneak out every night, and like Lambert said, they never really _wanted_ to escape, but take an eye off them for two seconds...

“A ropes course,” Geralt repeated, leaning into Eskel on the couch.

Lambert shrugged. “Or a challenge course, whatever they're called. Running the walls is a punishment, but they'll be happy to do the same thing as long as it's outside.” He gestured vaguely towards the back of the house. “You bought up the whole south field again. Eskel can teach Signs over the mill pond when we get around to that. Build a climbing wall, a slack line, one of those army crawl things. We don't have big trees for a full ropes course, but one of those low level challenge course things.”

Lambert ticked off on his fingers. “I'd say: wooden climbing wall, army crawl, slack lines, a few balance beams, a spiderweb, and a few group challenges. I can sketch some stuff out.” Geralt arched one smug eyebrow and Lambert looked away. “What? There are a lot of summer camps on my usual hunting routes, I've seen a lot of their shit...”

“I know.” Jaskier stood up and wrapped his arms around Lambert's shoulders, pressing small kisses up the side of his neck. “You miss training with the Cats, any reason to jump around, you'll take it, teach the new boys to do the same.”

“It's not just that.” Lambert let out a soft grunt and let Jaskier pet him, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. It was nice. They hadn't had time for any play in so, so long, the smallest touch threatened to set him off. As Jaskier fussed softly on him, Lambert looked at Geralt and Eskel. “You've all read the files, we knew confinement to a compound was going to wear on them. Even if our keep is better than any place they've been, kids need to run. I think they're ready. So what do you say? Master Geralt? Headmaster Eskel? Can we build them an agility course? We had the whole mountain to train on, and all they've got is the courtyard.”

Geralt and Eskel exchanged a look. “Would be nice to get outside the walls.”

Eskel nodded his agreement. “Geralt, Lambert, draw up plans. Looks like we're renovating again.”

Wood and rope structures were easy, Geralt didn't need to hire a contractor for this one, but he did have an inspector come by and verify his work before letting the boys near it. The first fresh breeze of spring was filled with hoots and hollers as Geralt and Lambert let them loose, running over planks, swinging off ropes, pushing on the balance beam. A sharp whistle from the White Wolf had them all falling in line, eager to run drills through the course. As Geralt watched them move, his eyes met Lambert's, _good form, they look stronger, Clay and Ollie were the smallest, look at them now..._

Eskel approved a camping trip at the end of spring— “Camping, not hunting,” he informed the group of crestfallen boys—and started giving cooking lessons to anyone who wanted them. Dieter and Clay took to cooking like naturals, and Eskel's mealtime work got cut in half with the new helpers. The other four wanted to learn instruments—not just pick at them idly because they liked the sound, but actually learn—and Jaskier started giving individual lessons while Eskel gave cooking instruction.

As the weather grew warmer, the Witchers all agreed, “They're strong enough for practice swords,” Geralt said. Morning training was mostly made up of calisthenics, footwork drills, and now long runs around the property, and a few drills through the obstacle course at the bottom of the hill. Jaskier had been looking forward to watching sword training start, even practice with wooden training swords. He had many fond memories of sitting on the balcony at Kaer Morhen, watching the last remaining Witchers spar and tease each other as they dodged and twirled. He found a spot on the roof of Corvo Bianco in his first life—he liked to go up there and play the lute whenever he visited Geralt—and he hoped to go up there again and watch practice... But his book on the School of the Wolf was out, and it was a hit. His publisher was begging for a book tour.

“Go,” Eskel said. “Beginning sword work will tax their muscles and build new ones, they'll probably go back to falling asleep in your lessons for a bit. I was thinking of switching your classes to open study for a few weeks until they get used to the new training. You work hard on your writing, you should go.”

Jaskier quickly peered out the barn door before pressing in close to Eskel. The boys never came here, getting sent to Headmaster Eskel's office was a threat enough to scare them all away from the barn entirely, making it a safe place for Jaskier to fuck Lambert over the pool table. They hadn't had many incidents that needed Eskel's intervention; Dieter and Stranden got into a fight after Dieter called the other boy a fag during footwork drills. It was basically dancing and young boys were mean to each other sometimes. The incident hadn't repeated. So far, that was the only incident that required Eskel's direct intervention. Jaskier checked the door all the same.

With no one lurking, Jaskier pulled Eskel into a burning kiss, filled with longing and almost half a year of desire. The sex was always good, but quick fucks in the middle of the night, blow jobs in the sauna, or a tumble with Eskel and Geralt while Lambert stood watch did not compare to what they used to get up to. Jaskier finally understood why school breaks were so necessary. Two whole weeks without a house full of boys... but they knew this was part of the price. They weren't just teachers now, they were guardians of the next generation of Witchers, and guardians didn't get a day off.

* * *

Geralt paced back and forth in front of the line of initiates, for that was what they truly were now. The last few months of strengthening, footwork, teaching them how to move and stay light on their feet, it all led up to today. Even a training sword in a boy's hand made him closer to a Witcher than any other person on the Continent. Geralt made the new set of training swords himself, each of them with the wolf emblem carved at the hilt. They wouldn't get their medallions for many years to come, but they wanted the kids to think of themselves as part of the School of the Wolf—they were already wolf pups, whether they knew it or not.

He glanced at Lambert and Eskel, each standing at the end of the line, their chest swelling with pride. Ask them a hundred years ago, and they'd all give their left nut not to be called “Master Witcher,” but now that they had the chance to make a new way through, the idea of passing on their legacy had a pride to it. For the first time in a very long time, Geralt thought of Vesemir without a hint of sadness, how proud he was of the adults they became, protectors of the Continent.

“The swords we practice with are made of wood,” he said, pacing back and forth in front of the line. The sun was barely up, but they were used to it by now, ready for a day's learning then an afternoon sleeping in the living room, books open on their faces to block the light, TV softly playing in the background. “Yet whenever you hold one, whenever you strike, you need to think of them as real. A steel sword in the hand of a man is a deadly tool, in the hand of a Witcher, it is an extension of your arm. It is part of you. Treat the practice swords with that same respect.”

He nodded towards the rack ten feet away, and the boys ran to collect their swords, pushing and shoving a little before scrambling back into place. Not a single one dragged his sword on the ground, the wood too heavy for him to lift. Their muscles were strong now, well prepared for the real start of their training. How far they'd come in just a few months.

With the smallest glance, Lambert walked to the front to stand next to Geralt. While Eskel's fighting style harmonized with Geralt's better, Lambert was the other combat instructor; they needed to show the contrast of Lambert's fluid movements and Geralt's flawless technique, hoping the boys would settle somewhere in between the two.

The _sching_ of the metal against the sheath nearly sent a shiver down Geralt's spine, the sound of his blade singing from the sheath brought back distant memories of a million contracts, a million kills, but also more recent memories of late nights spent practicing with Eskel so Jaskier and Lambert could enjoy their alone time. He rolled his shoulders and gripped firmly, seeing Lambert do the same. With the smallest nod, they began.

Lambert struck first with a simple thrust. Nothing fancy like he'd usually try, they didn't want to give the boys too many ideas. Geralt deflected with a smooth parry, then jabbed. Lambert sidestepped and lunged again, Geralt blocked.

They moved back and forth gracefully, trading blows and strikes, neither really getting the upper hand. This fight wasn't about winning, it was about showing off, the boys had to see what they might become if they buckled down, but nothing so fancy they'd get frustrated they couldn't replicate. The basic thrusts and parries would come quickly.

They finished the demonstration and bowed. Well, Geralt bowed, Lambert threw him a cheeky wink and he rolled his eyes. He turned his attention back to the kids. “Alright, no partners at first. Just like footwork drills, you follow me. Spread out. If you're close enough to touch another sword, you're close enough to get stabbed. And everyone remember: these are real blades, treat them as such.”

Once they all moved out far enough to practice safely, Geralt turned to face forward, falling into a basic fighting stance. “Foot position one, raise the tip of your sword, and lunge.” He held the lunge, giving Lambert time to go around and correct everyone's positioning. “Other foot now, lunge!” They'd get into proper commands later, this was the first day, and they had so much ahead of them.

Jaskier returned from his book tour three weeks later—not as long as his publisher wanted, but as long as he was willing to give them—and demanded a demonstration. “I want to see what they're working on!” Zander, who just turned eleven, blushed and turned away from Jaskier's too happy eyes. _Oh_ , Eskel thought to himself, _and so it begins_.

They just started partner work last week, and Geralt volunteered Ollie and Clay to demonstrate. He partnered them up by height for now, once they hit all their growth spurts, they'd work with everyone, but tiny little Ollie had no hope of standing up to Zander or Stranden, both almost a full head taller. Ollie and Clay stepped towards the front of the group and bowed, taking their positions.

Their strikes with the wooden swords were definitely slower, arms shaking after working all morning, but their form was good. When they finished the mock battle, Jaskier clapped. “You boys look amazing. Now come on! Sword work is over. Stranden, have you been practicing while I was away? I want to hear that piece we were working on.”

All six kids returned their swords to the weapons racks and fell in behind Jaskier, leaving Geralt and Lambert shaking their heads. “Never would've pegged him for a mother duck,” Lambert chuckled.

Geralt nudged him. “Never would've pegged any of us for teachers.” He waited until the boys were in the house before moving in close, breath ghosting across Lambert's neck. “We haven't had any escape attempts in a while.” Almost two full months, since they finished the new obstacle course outside the walls, the boys were gladly running themselves ragged during the day, too tired to try and climb the walls for fun at night. “I can ask the Headmaster for some time off, take you to the bathhouse tonight, let Jaskier watch. You know how he likes it when I bend you into creative positions.”

Geralt wasn't actually touching him, which made him just a little bit more desperate. Oh, how Lambert wanted to lean into him, but that would be giving in too quickly. “Don't tempt me, pretty boy...” He inhaled quickly, scenting Geralt's arousal on the air. “If Eskel lets us, you know that means he'll want my ass tomorrow too, and you'll be on night watch.”

“Mmm, I'm willing to make that sacrifice.”

Eskel agreed, of course he did. The door to the barn tightly shut, all the boys in Jaskier's music class, he wrapped an arm around both of them, pulling in close and sniffing deep. With all the new smells in the house—six prepubescent boys generated quite a cloud of smell, and it was only going to get worse in the coming years—Eskel had to get so close to tell Geralt and Lambert from the miasma these days. Any chance to get their scent in his lungs again was an opportunity not to be missed. “You owe me,” he purred into Geralt's neck before licking Lambert's adam's apple. His hand slid down to cup Lambert's ass. “Geralt better not use you too hard, I want tomorrow night. You and Jaskier.”

After dinner that night, all the boys occupied with their reading assignments, Eskel flitting between the library and living room to assist, the other three quietly slipped out the back door and into the bathhouse. The master bathroom and the bathhouse were the only ones off limits to students, but with five other bathrooms and six boys, there were never any fights. Still, Jaskier appreciated having one pristinely clean space untouched by the grime of six kids who spent all day getting covered in dust. Especially after his book tour, all those hotel rooms with nice bathrooms, but nothing ever compared to home.

They rinsed off in the shower, Geralt and Lambert touching him all over, vying for his attention. They already licked and snuggled every inch of him when he got back last night, but they all needed a little reconnection time. He let them touch a little before stepping out from under the shower head, preventing them from following with a look.

“I was promised a show. Finish cleaning yourselves, I'll be in the bath.” He started filling the large soaking tub, settling in and watching Geralt and Lambert push and growl at one another.

After Geralt pushed Lambert against the wall, pinning him and marking his submission with a bite to his neck, he bent him over the side of the tub, just close enough for Jaskier to extend one foot and rub it along Lambert's chest. Though they couldn't use their studded play cuff with all the water, Geralt made sure to grab Lambert's wrist, reminding him of its presence. He purred every time those thick fingers wrapped around him.

Lube in hand, Geralt gave Jaskier a show, thrusting slow and deep, wringing all sorts of moans and grunts from Lambert. Jaskier watched the pleasure play across Lambert's face, his hand dipping below the bath water to tease at his own cock as Lambert's bobbed in front of him, so far untouched. “Mmm, you two are beautiful,” Jaskier whispered. Both still wet from their shower, Jaskier reached out and trailed a drop of water from Lambert's chin, all the way down his neck. Eyes dark with lust watched him, fluttering a little when Geralt added a third finger.

Honestly, if Geralt spent the whole night fingering Lambert until he was insensate, Jaskier would call it a well spent evening, but they always had more in store for him. Geralt slicked himself and pressed in, Lambert arching like the little tease he was, leaning into Geralt while thrusting his cock towards Jaskier. Then, with a wink, he raised his arms. Moving in perfect sync, Geralt wrapped his arms around Lambert's, holding him in what looked like a full nelson. Lambert jumped up, curling his calves around the back of Geralt's thighs.

And they just... started fucking like _that_. Lambert fully in the air, supported by Geralt's strong arms and firm chest, abs tight as he used his core to keep a firm grip on Geralt's legs. Geralt's hips pistoned forward, both of them smirked at Jaskier. “Enjoying the view?” Geralt huffed. Lambert growled, unable to fully articulate as he got fucked while literally hanging off Geralt.

Jaskier's hand tightened on his cock. He had half a mind to stop stroking. He wanted his turn with Lambert next—maybe Geralt holding him down somewhere—but the sight in front of him was too good. Leaning forward, he managed to get the head of Lambert's cock into his mouth before it was all too much, coming hard and dirtying the bathwater. Never one to leave a job half done, Jaskier sucked Lambert down deep until he felt a gush cover his tongue. Geralt followed a second later, filling Lambert as he gripped tight to him.

They repeated the act the next night with Eskel. Who said they couldn't balance work and a home life?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Treating all training weapons as real is from my own personal martial arts training. They started us with foam weapons so we didn't hurt ourselves, but all my teachers were very clear: treat any weapon like it's real. I'd like to think the Witchers would use that same philosophy.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What was the School of the Wolf but the longest shot in history? The fact that Geralt, Eskel and Lambert were still here was amazing in itself, of course they produced amazing students when given the chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I mentioned it last chapter, I want them to use Signs. I like canon, but I reserve the right to ignore the parts of it I don't like... Yeah, that's what I'm going with.
> 
> Thank you to my beta, what_about_the_fish for all their help on this fic :)

Eskel wasn't as aloof as Headmaster Rennes, who really only intervened in matters of punishment, or choosing the boys for further mutations, yet he wasn't completely involved either. Punishment was rare, usually just a simple fist fight that earned the two involved laundry or dish duty for the week. Dieter and Clay were the ones who helped Eskel in the kitchen, but even they didn't want to do dishes for the whole house, and discipline was easy. _Sometimes too easy_ , Eskel thought. He and Geralt got up to shit all the time when they were kids, and yet these boys were just so happy for a roof over their heads and training, they didn't have too many issues other than the odd tantrum or scuffle. Made Eskel think the system that branded them all as “last chance cases” might be a little too quick to make the assumption.

With all of them settled into their new lives, nightmares few and far between, Eskel began meditation lessons in the spring. They gathered around Eskel down near the mill pond—the mill was destroyed centuries ago, but none of them could imagine calling it anything else—settled on their knees, Eskel guided them through the meditation.

“There are no more mutations, so none of you will be able to actually heal your bodies through meditation, but you can heal your minds. On The Path, this is an invaluable skill. Meditation is all about quieting your mind and listening to your body, tuning in with yourself when the world seeks to distract you. Feel your breath, the way it rushes in and out of your body, the way it swirls inside you before passing back into the air. Inhale, take a bit of the air into yourself, then exhale and release it back. Just like an individual Witcher is part of the larger pack, you will leave for The Path some day, but you will always return to the whole.”

He didn't slip into a full meditation, too busy monitoring the boys. Dieter and Zander fidgeted a little, the kneeling position uncomfortable at first, but eventually settled. After a solid ten minutes on breath, Eskel moved on. “You will never have our ability to control our hearts, yet you can calm yourself and listen to it regulate naturally. Consider your heart beat, let it fill you up. Don't count the beats, simply listen. Everything in this world has a heart beat, the animals we eat for food, the creatures we hunt. Whether we like it or not, we are all connected. Remember that.”

Listening to six heart beats calm and slow, Eskel smiled to himself. After a few minutes, the slow _thump... thump... thump_ of one heart quickened, _thump-thump-thumpthump_. Eskel opened his eyes and saw Gib's face screwed up with tension. “Looking inside is difficult,” Eskel said. “Meditation isn't about dwelling on your thoughts, but about letting them go. If there's a particularly painful memory that asserts itself, don't fight it, but don't cling either. See it, remember it, then let it go, it need not trouble you.”

He watched Gib for another few minutes, listened to his deep breaths until his heart slowed again, calm passing over his face once more. While all the boys had their issues—nightmares were fewer now, not gone entirely—Gib seemed reluctant to let his go. A child abandoned in Skellige, yet none of the clans were willing to take him in. Eskel hadn't heard of Skellige abandoning any of their orphans, they were still a very tight knit clan society after all these years. Unless his parents were Craven, stripped of their names and pushed out of their clan... Eskel made a mental note to try and get more information out of the Skellige Premier. _Oh, what fun_.

After a week of meditation lessons, all six easily settled, listening to their bodies and giving their minds time to rest. After two weeks, Eskel noticed the first tingle of magic on the air and smirked. They were ready.

Concentration and gesture were enough to create a Sign, it's why Witchers could use magic without the conduit moment required by mages or a significant connection to Chaos. But as the strongest magic user ever produced by any Witcher school, Eskel knew they were all connected to Chaos—every man, woman, and child, human and non-human—and tapping into that connection was the “concentration” part of the equation. Most Witchers of old didn't need to know this, so they weren't taught it. After three weeks of meditation, Eskel planned to lead them down to the mill pond for an entirely different lesson.

Geralt, Lambert and Jaskier wanted to come and watch the lesson. “I haven't seen you unleash your Signs in a few decades,” Geralt growled, pushing close to Eskel in bed, trying to hold him in the warm sheets for another moment. Jaskier rolled over, helping Geralt pull Eskel down.

Eskel pushed them all away. “No, none of you are allowed to come. Don't want them to get intimidated their first day of Signs.” He kissed them all and rounded up the kids for the trip down to the mill pond.

When a few of them fell to their knees for meditation, Eskel shook his head. “Not today, everyone, stand back here.” He positioned them a good ten feet away from the pond, then walked to the water's edge. They'd gone over the theory in class, all the boys knew what Signs were, their names, what to think about when you cast, but now it was time for the first real test of their magic, how much concentration had they learned over the past few weeks?

“Ask any mage, wizard or sorceress and they'll tell you the magic Witchers have is tiny, a drop in the bucket compared to their power.” With a small smirk, Eskel turned to face the pond.

“Igni.” A gush of fire emerged from his fingers, burning through the air. Though the boys were far back, they still felt the heat of it on their faces, like the inferno of a burning barn in a dry summer. Some of them staggered back farther, tripping over their feet in shock, but still unable to look away. The jet of fire streaked the full length of the pond. Eskel had to hold himself back a little to prevent scorching the trees on the other side. Some day, they'd find a field large enough for him to truly let go.

He lowered the plume until the fire skittered across the top of the water, barely disturbing the surface, the reflection breathtaking. Ooohs and aahhhs sounded behind him and Eskel smiled, recalling the jet. “This is why we fight one handed, why Geralt insists and even smacks your hand when you try to hold it like a greatsword. Your second hand is for Signs. While they are no less important than the rest of your training, a Sign might save your life.

“None of you will ever be as powerful as I am, but you all have the potential for Signs. This isn't the magic of Aretuza, all you require are concentration and gesture. We learned meditation to help with concentration, the rest will follow. Now, who wants to learn how to throw me into the air?”

Six excited children surged forward and watched Eskel demonstrate the hand movements for Aard. He made the minor adjustments to their form and stood at the edge of the pond. “Like we learned in class, Aard is a blast of telekinetic energy meant to stagger or completely unseat your target—concentrate on that idea. All of you try Aard one by one. The first to push me into the pond doesn't have to do their chores for the rest of the week.” With a solid motivation, they all tried to push Eskel into the water.

“Aard! Aard!” They went down the line. Eskel didn't feel more than a stiff breeze, nowhere near the kinetic force a solid Aard produced. Give them time...

As the end of the lesson approached, he needed to get them back up to the house for a few sword drills, then Jaskier's classes. “Alright, stop!” They lowered their hands, excitement still surging through them despite the lack of results. Eskel opened his arms wide. “One last try, all of you at once. If you can push me in, I'll have Jaskier go get a cake for dessert tonight.”

The wide surface area of his chest provided quite a target. He watched them closely, a little pleased when they all glanced at each other, counting out the timing before striking as one. “Aard!” six voices shouted.

It was no more than a love tap, a ball chucked a little too hard at his chest. Eskel moved his foot to step back, but he remained on the bank, definitely not in the mill pond. Ollie, Clay and Stranden looked a little crestfallen, but Dieter, Zander and Gib smirked. They saw Eskel's foot move, they saw the small amount of power they produced as a group, and they wanted to learn more.

“Alright,” Eskel said and started to herd them back to the house. “Sword drills for an hour before lunch and history, move!”

* * *

As much as the years preparing to open the school seemed to drag on, the next few years absolutely flew by. Once the kids started sword work and Signs, Jaskier sought to expand the classroom end of things as well. Essi came as a guest lecturer for two weeks, teaching some modern history (Jaskier was still stuck between the twelfth and fourteenth centuries, he had to be with all his books revolving around the Great Northern Wars) and dance classes. Geralt's footwork drills were basically dancing (though Jaskier would never say that out loud) and dance was essential to good sword work. The boys blushed and stammered when Essi invited them to dance, so Jaskier took up the offer, swinging her around the living room and earning peals of laughter, the blue pearl around her neck as always.

Essi's visit also allowed them all a night off. After four days, she gave Jaskier a knowing look and placed her hand over his. “I'll take night watch. You four need... time.” Jaskier promptly kissed Essi and dragged them all out to the bathhouse, which also had a muffling spell on it now.

His parents—who came to guest lecture on business and civics, Eskel was adamant the boys know how to manage their money and navigate the local governments they might encounter—were less subtle about it. “We'll stay up in case the kids need anything,” his mother said. “Go treat your men to a good night.” Jaskier blushed, stammered his thanks and went to find _his men_. He studiously didn't tell them it was his mother's idea.

When the kids' Signs were improving, Eskel brought his sorceress friend Clari Elvine to lecture for a week, teaching them how to find the Chaos deep inside themselves. “Eskel is more than capable,” Clari whispered to Jaskier over dinner the night before she left. “I think he wanted to show off his students to me. They're better than the last crop Aretuza churned out, though we have more time to perfect our craft.”

Jaskier smirked at the idea, Eskel showing off their students. Of course he was proud of them, the six misfit boys on their last chance with traditional care homes were a long shot. What was the School of the Wolf but the longest shot in history? The fact that Geralt, Eskel and Lambert were still here was amazing in itself, of course they produced amazing students when given the chance.

While Jaskier had history and music, and pretty much any other subject the kids wanted to learn, more than covered, Geralt and Eskel took over his classes when it was time to learn of the beasts they were facing. The thick, dusty tomes liberated from Kaer Morhen before it fell to ruin had been faithfully copied and modernized by Eskel years ago (no more haths and thous, easier to read) and Lambert drilled them on decoctions and oils, plants and herbs for healing, plants for potions. They went camping at least once every season, teaching the boys which plants to collect, which to eat, and which to stay the hell away from.

Every new lesson came with the same caveat: “You will never have the same senses as us, the same strength, but you will have the skill. Knowledge is the power of a Witcher, everything else is just extra.” No one asked why they'd never have the special powers of a Witcher, no one asked about the yellow eyes, or the keen senses. Much to Jaskier's surprise, they all seemed to know. They saw the trauma Geralt, Eskel and Lambert carried to this day, understood it like they knew their own. It seemed broken children were destined to find their way to this life.

The more they learned about monsters—werewolves, bruxa, kikimore, dire creatures from the Third Conjunction—the more eager they all became. By the time Ollie, the youngest, turned twelve, their sword work was wonderful, their Signs strong enough to knock Eskel into the mill pond or light their own campfire, and none of them had poisoned themselves with the weakened Swallow. Lambert spent years perfecting it for Ciri, so they knew it would be safe, but they were always cautious.

Eskel stood up one night at dinner, the plates long empty, most of the kids talking quietly with their best friends and dorm mates about plans for their free time tomorrow. Eskel recognized a closeness in more than a few of them, it reminded him of himself and Geralt at that age, not yet in the puppy love of youth, but their bond of friendship already deeply rooted. He cleared his throat and waited for silence. It didn't take long and soon all eyes were on him.

“I got word from Kagen the other day. They have a contract for us. We're all going.” It took time to train the next generation of Witchers, but they were still needed and Geralt, Eskel and Lambert left for contracts every now and again. With all the government contacts Eskel had from setting up Kaer Morhen South, they already received quite a few calls from local municipalities, wondering what to do about a particular infestation. A call about a possible harpy nest came in last week, Eskel was going to check it out. Harpies seemed like the perfect first contract, possibly deadly in a swarm, but easy to take out once you got them on the ground. The boys would love it. “We leave in the morning.”

Eskel turned away, pausing in the hall. Whoops and hollers of excitement sounded from the other room and he smirked. It was a hell of a thing to coordinate, three boys in Lambert's new-ish station wagon, the other three with Geralt and Eskel in the Scout, enough gear and provisions to last them all... but it was worth it. They needed to see what life was really like out there.

Jaskier stayed behind, he had a book deadline to meet for the final edits to the _History of the School of the Griffin_ and really did need the quiet time to work... didn't mean he wasn't going to miss them. He stood at the gates and waved as they pulled away, Ollie and Dieter turned in their seats, waving back through the windows of the Scout. “I can't wait to have a bard,” Zander whispered under his breath, his cheeks bright red.

Geralt and Eskel exchanged a look. What was Jaskier teaching in those history classes? “Trust me,” Geralt said. “They're more trouble than they're worth.”

Two days' drive put them near the contract. When they arrived at the last sighting, Eskel frowned. The low hills surrounding the area weren't the right terrain for harpies. Griffins might nest in hills when mountains weren't available—plenty of sheep and cattle wandering those same green hills—but not harpies. After seven hundred years, humans still couldn't tell a harpy feather from a griffin feather, not even with prime photographic examples online.

“Geralt!” Eskel called while Lambert and the boys set up their camp. After years of camping trips to learn about tracking and survival, they were naturals at it, didn't even need a golden eye to look over their tent set up.

He pointed up high in the trees, to broken branches too thick for a harpy to take out. Geralt and Eskel exchanged a look. _Griffin_. Geralt whistled, grabbing Lambert's attention. He frowned at the sight. If it was a royal griffin... it might be too much for a first hunt. They'd do more scouting in the morning, maybe take off to find the thing themselves. They boys would be disappointed, but harvesting useful potion ingredients from the corpse was right up the average Witcher twelve year old's alley of interest.

With camp set up, Eskel supervised Clay as he made dinner, the rest of the boys milled around, asking Lambert to check their gear and talking excitedly about tomorrow's hunt. _Maybe it won't be a royal griffin_ , Geralt thought. He so hated to let the boys down...

Only Gib sat by the fire, a loosely bound packet of papers in his hand. Geralt sat down next to him and peered at the cover. Jaskier's School of the Griffin book. “Jaskier had an extra copy of the manuscript,” he said as soon as he saw Geralt. “He let me take it to read on the trip.”

Geralt nodded. “School of the Griffin was good, produced good Witchers.” Eskel and Lambert had their own opinions on Coën's honorable nature—Griffins embodied the traditional knightly values of the original Order of Witchers before the various schools split off and the Order was abandoned—but Geralt appreciated Coën's dedication to his school's code. Though the world saw Witchers as beings without honor, Coën died doing what he believed was right.

He leaned in close, reading over Gib's shoulder. He tipped the book for Geralt to see the passage he was reading: _Coën was among the most honorable men I knew in my life, not a Wolf, but just as dedicated to his guild, his brothers, and his craft._

He had to smile at that; this Jaskier waxing poetically about Coën, pretending it was a quote from the first Jaskier. Though the bard always said he only loved Wolves, Geralt remembered a few nights in the dead of winter, Jaskier had too much to drink and _stumbled_ into Coën's lap. If the Griffin wasn't so honorable about Jaskier being School of the Wolf's mate, he might have taken him up on it.

“Coën was a dear friend,” Geralt said.

“I like the way Jaskier writes about him. Like he was there, it really pulls you in.”

“Yes it does...” Geralt shifted a little. They hadn't told the boys about Jaskier. They seemed to accept the story of his family lineage and finding the Witchers just like his ancestor did at face value, they were still innocent like that.

After four years teaching and learning from each other, all the kids were like sons to them, and Geralt wanted to tell them essentially the only family secret the School of the Wolf had anymore, but Eskel was more cautious. “We're already planning to send them out into the dangers of the world with all our trade secrets, I don't want to burden them with yet another secret.” Jaskier refused to get involved. It was his reincarnation, but Eskel was Headmaster, the boys' welfare came first.

Ignoring Geralt's badly concealed attempts to deflect, Gib continued staring at the book, the page with Jaskier's sketch of Coën in his armor. “You told me I could have another name.”

“Yes, you certainly can.” He didn't go on about how, most Witchers brought as babes chose their names later in life, or kept the ones given by Vesemir and the other teachers, for their natural family hadn't provided one. Why name a baby that would be whisked from your arms by a man in armor with terrifying yellow eyes?

“I want an honorable name,” he said, still staring at Coën in the book, his fingers tracing the outline of the sketch. “I was born in Skellige without the honor of a name, I want to take that honor back.”

Geralt dropped his arm around Gib's shoulders and pulled the boy close. The others were starting to gather around the fire, plates passed from one hand to another for dinner, a few of them gathered close to Lambert as he showed off his harpy scar. “Take all the time you need to decide,” Geralt whispered for Gib's ears only. “A name is important, choose well.”

He closed the book and slid it in safely with his bedroll in the tent, then came back to dinner with the others, talking and laughing like any old night at Corvo Bianco. Gib was always a little more serious, a stoic young boy, Geralt could definitely relate. As talk turned to the harpy hunt in the morning, Eskel, Lambert and Geralt's eyes met over the fire. If it wasn't a harpy nest... well, they'd improvise.

* * *

It wasn't a harpy nest. That much was obvious straight off. At first light, the kids followed Eskel, Geralt and Lambert through the woods, swords strapped to their backs, all of them squashing down their excited chatter to listen as Eskel showed them the tracks he found. The Witchers found them by scent, but there was a definite depression in the dirt for the boys to look at. They were adept hunters of regular game—Lambert made sure they knew how to clean fish, rabbit, deer, anything they might catch out in the wild—and knew how to look for animal tracks, the transition to beasts wouldn't be difficult.

“This is how we know it's not a harpy,” Eskel explained. “Tracks are too deep, too big, similar shape though. You have to watch out for that. Also, griffins will land when they please, harpies only when injured.” It was an oversimplification, a summary of what they already covered in class. And now, Eskel got to the part none of them were going to like. “We planned on harpies, they're fierce but go down easy if you hit them right. A griffin is... too much. Right now.”

“Awww! No fair!” they all grumbled.

Eskel held up a hand for silence and got it. Well trained Wolves already. “Geralt, I remember passing a pond. Go see if you can find some buckthorn and we'll set a trap on one of the high hills—you lot can watch from the treeline. Lambert, make sure they find a good concealed spot.” Another grumble of disappointment, but they all agreed. Eskel pointed out a few more telltale signs before Lambert gathered them up to scout a good lookout. Geralt backtracked to the nearby pond. With any luck, he'd find buckthorn. He really didn't fancy buying a sheep or a goat off a farmer for bait, knowing Eskel, he'd want to take it home with them after the job was done.

Tupperware was a fantastic modern invention. It made separating ingredients and keeping them fresh a breeze, easy carrying, it was perfect. If they ever wanted a spokesman, Geralt was first in line, but he didn't think they wanted to cater to Witchers. Geralt loved the plastic containers that kept the smellier ingredients at bay, and fuck did he wish he had one right now, but he didn't think he'd be harvesting buckthorn this trip.

Their camp in his sights—Eskel and the boys waiting, some of them waving, Lambert impatient to get to the lookout they spotted earlier—he heard the first flap of wings. Eskel saw it first, his face twisting in blind panic, not for himself or Geralt but for the boys. “Lambert! Get them out of here!” Lambert grabbed the nearest kid by the collar—Ollie—and yanked, the others following their lead. “Hide in the trees! Denser the better! Move!”

Geralt threw the buckthorn over his shoulder, hoping to distract the griffin while he joined Eskel to mount their defense. The kids were already scattered, six human hearts hammering in a mix of fear, adrenaline and excitement. But the griffin did not stop to get the buckthorn, he continued after Geralt. Silver sword singing out of its sheath, he turned to face the griffin.

“Fuck.”

The differences were subtle, Geralt only saw the slight bulge of the acid sac under it's tongue because he was too damn close. What in the ever loving fuck was an archgriffin doing in the hills of Kagen? Water still clinging to him from his dive into the pond, the smell of buckthorn was all over him too, and he looked more appetizing than the soggy plant on the ground. Opening its mouth, extending its claws, the archgriffin flew towards Geralt.

A fierce growl sounded from behind and Geralt ducked. Using his back as a ramp, Eskel flew into the air, bringing his sword down into the archgriffin's open mouth, destroying its acid sac. Drops splashed down his blade and over his hands, but it could have been so much worse. Now, it was just a normal griffin, and a wounded one at that.

He rolled back to his feet, falling into a fighting crouch. Eskel and Geralt circled the shrieking beast, looking for their opening. Injured, bleeding and leaking acid, the griffin held its wings around it like a shield. Eskel saw a quick flash of tender belly and went to lunge, but the griffin threw him back with a wing and took flight. “Fuck!” he shouted, climbing to his feet again.

Injured and pissed, it would alight on a nearby hill close to its nest. They could follow it, leave the boys with Lambert. They had to take care of it now, not give it a chance to come back and murder more livestock (or maybe a farmer) because it had a brand new grudge. But it was already too far away. They had a crossbow back at camp—did Geralt have time to get it before it was too far?

The _thwap_ of an arrow singing through the sky, followed shortly by the scream of the griffin, took Geralt and Eskel off guard. Eskel kept his eye on the griffin while Geralt turned to follow the arrow. Up in one of the tall trees, Gib crouched on a branch, one arm wrapped around the trunk, the other holding a crossbow. Leaning into the tree, he loaded another arrow and fired, catching the griffin under a wing. His third arrow hit it in the eye.

Five hundred pounds of muscle and feathers crashed to the ground, screaming and squawking, thrashing around with multiple arrows sticking from it. Geralt surged forward and plunged his sword behind its head, severing it's spinal cord. One final flail got lucky, the sharp beak catching Geralt across the forearm, before it collapsed to the ground, the life gone from it.

“Geralt!” Eskel shouted, running to him. He grabbed the bleeding arm—the cut almost closed—and checked for acid drops. The acid that landed on his own skin was irritating, but manageable, acid in an open wound however...

“Eskel,” Geralt panted, his heart racing not from the archgriffin, but from Eskel's closeness. No matter how much they touched in the night, they had to stay professional on a trip with the boys, always staying just out of range. A brother hurt flared their protective instincts, but the duty to their students held Eskel back... “I'm fine. Check the boys.”

They made their way back to camp, leaving the griffin for now. No one was going to come scoop the contract out from under them, it could stay there for a little while, the body still twitching a little grotesquely. Eskel kept a hand on Geralt, his shoulder, nothing scandalous, but Lambert arched an eyebrow when he saw them, continuing his headcount of the kids.

Lambert found them one shy and immediately looked at the tree Gib climbed—just in time to see his foot slip. Lunging across their camp, Lambert opened his arms, hoping he was fast enough. “Uh, fuck,” he grunted as Gib's surprisingly solid body landed on his chest, the crossbow clenched in his hand held aloft and safe from damage. “Next climbing lesson,” Lambert wheezed. “One handed climbing with gear. Definitely.”

“My arm...” the boy moaned.

Despite their wounds, Geralt and Eskel ran over, all three gathered around Gib. Geralt sniffed the injury, finding residue of tree bark and dirt, no archgriffin acid. It was deep, but manageable. “Must've caught a branch on the way down,” Lambert said. Though he wasn't sobbing, a few painful tears rolled down Gib's cheeks. Taking the boy in his arms, Lambert brought him back to camp to dress the wound while Eskel saw to Geralt's injuries. They sure as fuck didn't expect an archgriffin, they had a shit plan and no backups, but as far as blundering contracts went... they did alright. Everyone was alive and mostly uninjured. The adrenaline drained out of them all and Eskel agreed they didn't need to watch him collect the griffin trophy, food and sleep were more important right now.

Though Lambert rescued him and dressed his wounds, Gib would not leave Geralt's side. He looked from his bandaged arm to Geralt's, his frown deepening. “I thought,” he finally said after hours of stewing. “If I had the crossbow, I'd distract it and you wouldn't get hurt.”

“Mmm, you did a good thing.” He held up his arm in front of Gib, showing him the clean bandage, no blood staining the dressing. “This is nothing. I'll mostly heal by morning. You distracted it long enough for me an Eskel to get the upper hand. You did exactly what we've trained you to do, I couldn't be more proud.”

The small body, filled with tension, finally started to melt into Geralt's side. “I'm glad I helped.”

While Geralt's injury was minor, Gib's wasn't. The slash through his skin was almost deep enough for stitches, he'd check it again when changing the dressing before bed, but it was sure to leave a scar. At least they could truthfully tell their assigned social worker he got the injury falling out of a tree, not getting attacked by an archgriffin. “Congratulations, you have your first contract scar. Wear it proudly.” Gib buried his face in Geralt's shoulder, hiding his smile.

Geralt felt the boy slowly drop off to sleep and contemplated carrying him to the tents. He certainly earned the rest. “Griffin,” Gib whispered when Geralt shifted. “My name... I wanna be Griffin.”

Geralt smiled. “Griffin an Skellige. Not bad.”

“No. Griffin of Corvo Bianco.”

He nodded again. “A fine name.” He let Griffin fall asleep at his side, Eskel and Lambert on the other side of the fire with the rest of the boys squished between them. As he rubbed Griffin's back soothingly, Geralt's eyes didn't leave Eskel's.

 _I'm fine_ , he said without words. _Only a scratch_.

Eskel pressed his lips together and nodded. Still, the old urge to lick each other's wounds was strong. They spent years suppressing that part of their nature, keeping their closeness out of the boys' sight. To say it had begun to wear on them was an understatement.

* * *

Jaskier's inhuman squeal when they got home was worth it to watch the blush rise in Griffin's cheeks as he handed the manuscript back and announced his new name. “Griffin! Yes, strong, honorable and loyal, I love griffins. School of the Griffin, that is. Oh, come here, let me hug you.” He squished Griffin into a bone breaking hug before pulling back. “Is Griff alright for short? Your choice. If it's too much like your old name—”

“No, Griff is fine.”

Jaskier checked them all over and found no more than a few cuts and scrapes from collecting ingredients with Lambert in thick brush, one sunburned neck and an insect bite, perfectly acceptable injuries after a hunt. He insisted on seeing Geralt's injury, long healed. Geralt rolled his eyes and held out his arm for inspection, the skin perfectly smooth, not even a new scar.

Jaskier's fingers hovered over his skin, not touching, not in front of the kids, though he vibrated with the need. It was just like a winter greeting, after any small time apart, they all needed to hug and sniff and squeeze close, to make sure they were all in one piece. But that wasn't professional, and they had to wait until after dark. The old instinct to scent and lick clawed under Jaskier's skin as much as it did for Geralt, Eskel and Lambert. He hated waiting until the boys were asleep, and only then, it would be one at a time, someone always on watch.

“Oh please!” Zander sighed, shocking Jaskier back to attention. “We know. We've known for years, and we're not telling. I've never had a mother or a father, do you think I'll turn my nose up at four dads? Come on.” Being the oldest, Zander frequently fell into the older brother role. Gathering the boys up—taking some by the hand, others by the collar—they picked up the gear and headed upstairs to clean up, leaving all their professors alone in the front hall.

It took all of two seconds for Lambert to crumble, falling on Jaskier's neck like a romantic heroine on her swain. His nose slid up Jaskier's neck, sniffing the small changes over the last week since they left. Geralt came in next, pushing Lambert away. “I go first,” he growled playfully. Oh yes, Jaskier remembered _this_ argument. Every winter, as soon as they were done pouncing on Vesemir and each other, they all scrambled to kiss and cuddle Jaskier, Geralt growling “I go first,” every time.

Lambert growled impatiently, waiting his turn as Geralt sniffed at Jaskier. He wanted to lick inside his mouth, to taste everything he'd done the past week, but he held back... for now. Eskel got his turn next, Geralt holding tight to Lambert, who was getting more impatient by the second. When he was finally set free, he plowed into Jaskier, kissing him deeply. They all heard the boys upstairs, safe in their rooms, completely indifferent to whatever their instructors might be up to.

A odd pang twisted in Geralt's chest. A snowy castle filled to the rafters with Witchers—new, old, most with their medallions, some without—hundreds of breathing lungs, beating hearts, all going about their business as Geralt and Eskel met in the front hall, sharing a deep kiss to check in with each other and reconnect; did Eskel have enough to eat this season?; did Geralt recover from that nasty necker bite? With their wolf pups upstairs, and his mates held close, Geralt released a happy sigh.

“School of the Wolf... we are finally home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have this slightly cracky theory that modern Witchers would love tupperwear. Hold in all the gross smells and keep my ingredients fresh? Hell yes.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was the day they were all waiting for, the final rite of passage before the six initiates could truly call themselves Witchers of the School of the Wolf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are, the end of part 2. Thank you so much to everyone who gave the Modern Continent a chance. I'm still writing part 3 and it might be a while before it's up, but don't worry, I will finish this series, and I hope everyone enjoys the conclusion. This last chapter has a time skip in the beginning where we reflect on years gone by, hopefully there's enough family fluff in there for the people looking for it :)
> 
> Thank you for giving all the OC Witcher boys a chance as well, because there will be more of them coming. Thank you to my beta what_about_the_fish for all your help, couldn't have done it without you. Now please enjoy the final chapter <3

Spring air ruffled through Jaskier's hair and he smoothed a hand over the pages of his notebook as they fluttered about. He brought a rock up with him to act as a paper weight, but it slipped from his pocket and fell down the roof, landing in the courtyard. The nine predators working in the mid-morning sun all tensed, turning towards the sound. Geralt rolled his eyes and called them back into formation, but Ollie and Griffin took a second to wave up at Jaskier.

It was the day they were all waiting for, the final rite of passage before the six initiates could truly call themselves Witchers of the School of the Wolf. They all went through their phases of having a crush on Jaskier, even Clay, who spent every trip down to town ogling the local girls until Zander dragged him away. Through no fault of Jaskier's own, they all managed to convince themselves that a Witcher _needed_ a bard by their side, and since Jaskier was the only bard available (Essi came by every few months for a guest lecture, but she was a treat, not a solid goal like Jaskier) they set their sights on him. It was all puppy love, and the moment they graduated and got ready to set out into the world, Geralt would give them a good talking to about where they should and should not stick their dicks.

With his guitar and a notebook, Jaskier looked over his notes from the last trip he and Lambert took up the coast. “I see a light across the sea, over the waves it calls to me; out there is a treasure I seek, the kind of love that makes a man weak...” Jaskier sang to himself, strumming a little at the guitar. It was a pretty tune, but not quite right. While accurate histories of the Continent were his current claim to fame, he was making a good bit on the side as a songwriter. Not everyone with a voice had the gift for crafting the words, and a new pride swelled in Jaskier whenever he heard the latest popular musician singing his songs over the radio. So he added another job to his list of titles: Jaskier the author, singer, former bard, professor, and now songwriter. It felt like a lot, but they managed.

He peered up from his work every few minutes, watching the progression of the training in the courtyard. Their newest class of initiates—three little girls this time, all of them tough as nails and more vicious than the angriest forktail—sat at the edge of the training area, watching the older students show off their technique. Ten years of training produced solid Witchers, each one more than adept for The Path this season.

They changed the system so many times, Jaskier couldn't keep track anymore. After their first successful hunt (the surprise archgriffin) he noticed them grouping together, gravitating towards friends. Clay, Dieter and Stranden shared a room and became nearly inseparable over their first few years of training. Now, they all moved like a well oiled machine, Stranden's Signs the strongest of the three, Dieter's technique perfect, and Clay almost more adept than Lambert when it came to potions, decoctions and bombs. Ollie, Griffin and Zander were similar. Grouped together at the beginning of their training, they formed a tight bond, working out their own formations and group fighting style once Eskel started allowing the boys to help on contracts.

Eskel took his time mulling it over—they were changing the rules of what made a Witcher, but didn't want to go too far—and finally made his decision. With the three of them sat together on one couch, leaning against one another but lost in their own pursuits, Eskel spoke up. “We are the last three of the School of the Wolf,” he said. “I don't see why we should ignore this sign from Destiny.”

“Why not? We're good at ignoring Destiny.” Lambert mumbled and got a sharp elbow in the ribs from Geralt for his trouble.

Eskel pressed on. “No more lone wolves. We train them in groups, we send them out in groups. Three will travel together now.”

Geralt sighed. “I'll update our training handbooks.”

It was a radical idea, but no more radical than anything else they'd tried. Training Witchers without mutating them produced strong young men ready for the world with a sight more skills than a usual Witcher would have; they couldn't rely on their senses like Geralt or Lambert, so their tracking skills were keener; they healed like humans and were better at first aid. Sending three out together to watch each other's backs seemed... almost reasonable.

No more lone wolves, always a pack, whether they were home or on The Path.

This decision made Eskel reduce their school places to nine, something the various governments of the Continent were none too pleased with. After ten years, they had a waiting list a hundred names long, most of the children aged out before their files ever graced Eskel's desk. He was firm: no more than two classes at a time, staggered by five years. They needed time to cement fundamentals with the new class before taking on another. “You want good Witchers or do you want shit Witchers?” Eskel growled on one of those stupid conference calls that were thankfully, very rare now-a-days. “Let us work the way we need to.”

And boy, did their system work. After ten years, each boy was the equal of a new Witcher produced by Kaer Morhen. Geralt swelled with pride every morning during sword practice as they partnered up and sparred; it was subtle, only a seasoned Geralt watcher like Jaskier might notice the happy glint in his eye, but it was definitely there, all three were proud of their pups, as proud as Vesemir was of them.

The three girls of the new class, Tessa, Vivi, and Alvia, watched closely, trying to memorize every step. They were to start sword training after the first class set out on The Path and they were already chomping at the bit to begin. Vivi broke into the armory two weeks ago and tried to lift one of the real swords. She almost got it up to their room to show the others before Eskel caught her. They were on track to be more of a handful than six boys, and Jaskier couldn't wait. He had a bit of a weakness for fierce women.

Jaskier set his composition aside and leaned on his guitar, gazing down at the courtyard. They stood in a regimented row in front of Geralt, Eskel and Lambert off to the side, both unable to contain their smiles. Zander, the oldest, turned twenty last fall, and to mark his birthday, they all took a trip to Kaer Morhen. The boys had been strong enough for years, but Eskel wanted to wait. “They need to know where we came from right before they set out on The Path. They'll carry the sight of our first home with them as they go.”

The more the years went by, the more Eskel turned into Vesemir. As long as he still ravaged Jaskier in bed like the virile Witcher he was, Jaskier had no complaints.

As they reached the ruin of their keep, the cold air swirling around them, Eskel approached the rickety old bridge that somehow outlasted the stone walls. His eyes flicked over them all, the kids standing together, Jaskier crushed between Geralt and Lambert for warmth, and nodded to them all. “This is the place where we were made. It was harsh, brutal, and dangerous. Many of the students Geralt and I trained with didn't live to see their medallions. None of the boys Lambert trained with lived at all.” Jaskier tried to hold back the sob in his throat by squeezing tight to Lambert. “We didn't want that for you. No matter what happens on The Path, your first duty is to your pack, your brothers, and to us. Come home. We remember too many boys who did not.”

They lingered there for a few hours, silently watching the ruins. Zander meditated facing Kaer Morhen, his own way of connecting to the fraught past of the School of the Wolf. Griffin and Clay pricked their fingers and let drops of blood stain the ground, so they'd forever be part of Kaer Morhen. Dieter, Ollie and Stranden simply sat in silence, watching the shadows of the ruins get longer and longer as the sun moved across the sky. Geralt, Eskel and Lambert didn't do anything at all. This was the first time they'd been back in over a hundred years... they didn't need to speak.

Jaskier was the one to gather them all up and bring them a little farther down the mountain to make camp for the night. It wasn't winter but there was a chill in the air. They slept grouped in two tents for warmth. When they started down the mountain the next morning, Jaskier saw a change in all of them, not just the students, but his wolves too. The journey to Kaer Morhen became the only trial of the new School of the Wolf. Not a painful mutation to bend or break them, but a pilgrimage to see where it all began. It felt more fitting.

Six strong men stood in front of Geralt. He let his eyes slide over them one at a time, the way he had the first day they walked through the gates of Corvo Bianco. Ollie, no longer small and stringy, his blue eyes hard and determined, had a small scar across his cheek from a Dire Bear two years ago, the first scar of many. Clay was still a little shorter, but stocky, built wide like Eskel and still growing, in a few years his muscles would be the envy of all. Dieter had a scar too, stretching from his shoulder and curling down his elbow, he liked wearing tank tops to show it off, to him it was an earned badge of a job well done. Stranden was the tallest, his limbs long and lean, but strong, he beat Lambert in a climbing contest last month and hadn't stopped smirking about it since. Griffin's shocking red hair hadn't dulled, and his freckles made him look boyish and sweet, but lurking under that soft face was the heart of an honorable warrior. Zander was probably the most impressive of the lot; the first to try and escape, he took to leadership like a fish to water, able to hold his own in sword drills with Geralt and helping out when the others fell behind. They were an impressive group, more than deserving of the title Witcher.

“You will never have our speed, you will never have our strength,” Geralt said, walking down the line, looking each young man in the eye. “You will never have our senses or our endurance. These are the words we have said to you for years. But you have our skills, and that's what truly makes a Witcher.” Eskel and Lambert stepped to Geralt's sides, offering him a medallion. Geralt stopped pacing in front of Ollie and signaled him to bow his head.

The silver wolf medallion shined in the sun and Jaskier held his breath as Geralt slipped the chain over Ollie's head. “Today, you earn your medallion.”

He went down the line, presenting each with their own wolf medallion. They all tried to be stoic about it, but Jaskier saw Lambert smirking, and Dieter biting down on his lip to contain his whoop of triumph. How long had they gazed at the medallions around Geralt, Eskel and Lambert's necks? Or the one around Jaskier's? He didn't have their training, but he was a member of the School of the Wolf through and through, and now, these boys who came to them with shitty pasts and no names belonged as well.

Six medallions, six new Witchers. Geralt stepped back and surveyed his students, nodding to himself. “Alright, now clear out! You have packing to do! Tessa, Vivi, and Alvia, line up!” The girls scrambled to their feet and fell into line, some of the boys hugging them as they went past, whispering last goodbyes. They were set to leave early in the morning, there'd be dinner tonight and something of a party, but after only a year in the house, the girls were already a big part of the pack. The boys would miss them on The Path.

The Path had changed as well. Three together were safer, but the whole world was a little safer than the old days, towns were closer together, no one openly scorned a Witcher, and technology was a gift stronger than any magic. Over the past few months, Eskel bought two trucks for them to take; along with cellphones, and enough cash to get them anywhere, the new School of the Wolf had resources they didn't dare dream of in the past. Not only would they know if any of the boys got hurt, they'd be able to help. Eskel's sorceress friend Clari Elvine still lived in Toussaint, so they had a portal if they really needed one, but more likely, if Griffin or Zander or anyone else needed help on the other side of the Continent, Jaskier could hop a plane and be there in less than a day. A Witcher on The Path would never be alone again, and that was the plan.

Jaskier took a moment surveying their new Witchers as they put their equipment away, shoving playfully as they went. From his vantage point on the roof, he smiled down at the strong young men who'd always be skinny little boys in his eyes. Maybe after dinner tonight, Jaskier would bust out the photo albums like he did when they were small. Lumped together on the couches in the living room, they asked Jaskier questions about the photos. “How old is the Scout?”

“You'll want to ask Geralt about that, dearest.”

“Why is Lambert's hair blue in this one?”

“It was the eighties, it was a phase.”

At first, Eskel didn't like Jaskier showing them the albums. “They have to see us as teachers,” he grumbled. “Not fathers.”

When he got like this, Jaskier always leaned in close, pressing kisses up the side of his face, over his scars until he purred. “But that's what you are, just like Vesemir was for you three. We're the only family they've ever had, they want to know where we came from.” Growing up, they all loved Geralt's photos, loved watching their teachers and fathers march through the ages, solid and unchanging, always there when they needed. And every spring, without fail, Geralt dragged them all out to stand in front of the Scout and take a new family picture, adding to the ever growing collection.

Jaskier also started filling book after book with sketches of their old friends. Dieter (who loved Lambert's blue hair) was fascinated by the sketches of Zoltan and his mohawk. Jaskier opened the family album with Lambert's red mohawk phase and watched the boy's eyes go even wider. From the age of fifteen on, Dieter had some form of a mohawk, mostly short and well-kept, but sometimes large enough to act as a sail on top of his head.

The boys were heading into the house as Jaskier gathered up his things. Time to go help Eskel with the swarm of locusts, demanding lunch while Geralt and Lambert trained the girls. Slinging his guitar over his back, he tucked his notebook into his pocket and walked over to the ladder Geralt installed a few years ago. “If you're going to climb the roof like an idiot, I don't want you to fall,” he growled.

Taking one last look over their property—the beauty of Corvo Bianco extended past her walls—out over the green fields and onto the dusty hill road leading to their gates, Jaskier spotted a bright point of light half way up their drive. Squinting, he shaded his eyes from the mid-morning sun and tried to look closer.

Ash colored hair blazed in the light despite the dirt, a stringy, half exhausted girl trekked her way up the hill, her jaw set in an all too familiar determined grimace. She looked towards the sky, luminous green eyes catching the light—

 _Ciri_.

“Geralt!” Jaskier shouted. He scrambled for the ladder, but didn't want to take his eyes of fucking Ciri walking up their path. If it was a mirage, it was a hell of a likeness. While she was dressed like any modern girl, the Cintran blue of her shirt was unmistakable. “Geralt! Open the gates!”

All eyes turned to Jaskier. “What's wrong?” Geralt shouted back.

Jaskier jumped the last few rungs of the ladder and ran across the training grounds, towards the gates, guitar banging against his back. “Open the gates!” His hand barely brushed the mechanism when Geralt pushed him aside, slamming the lever down and grabbing Jaskier as the gates started to whine open.

“Jaskier, what the fuck?”

His chest heaved, a stitch of panic taking over him. How was Ciri here? What did it mean? No—he couldn't think like that, they could plan later, for now, Geralt needed to fucking move and get his daughter. “Ciri! Ciri's outside!” Geralt's face fell. He turned, looking through the slowly opening gates, but didn't let go of Jaskier, his hands gripping a little too tight for comfort. “Go! Fucking go, Geralt!”

Sprinting through the gap in the gate, Geralt ran full pelt down their hill. How far away was she? Jaskier didn't say. He saw her up on the roof, that meant he had a visibility of a few miles with the clear weather. Did he see her at the bottom of the hill? How far did Geralt have to go? All his thoughts slammed to a stop when a bright spot on the dirt path caught his eye. _Ashen hair_...

Geralt broke into a run again, speeding down the hill, kicking up dirt in his wake. More features came into sight at the very bottom of their drive. Ashen hair dirty from her travels, bright blue t-shirt and dirty jeans, a pack thrown over her shoulder, a dark pink scar cutting through her cheek, and two of the greenest eyes Geralt had ever seen in his life.

“Ciri.”

Their eyes locked and Ciri started running, her body exhausted, but she kept pushing. Geralt in her sights now, so very close. Geralt opened his arms and she collided with his chest, almost knocking him back.

“Ciri,” he whispered into her hair.

“Geralt,” she whispered back.

Tears he couldn't shed choked in his throat. Holding her tight to his chest, Geralt started to check for injuries, running his hand over her arms and back, sniffing for any blood or sickness... nothing. She was perfect, she was Ciri.

The dirt on her clothing and the pack on her back told him she'd been traveling for a while. Though she held on tight, she wasn't as strong as he remembered. And then there was the question of how—how was she even here? Another reincarnation like Jaskier? She smelled the same, looked the same, same scar across her cheek... Geralt stopped his thoughts in their tracks. No, there was plenty of time to figure this out. There'd be calls to Yen, magical tests, everything would see itself through shortly, but for now, Geralt needed to savor the girl in his arms, the one he thought he lost so long ago.

Geralt heard movement behind them, the whole population of Corvo Bianco gathered at the gates, only Eskel's soft shushing and strong hold kept them from running after Geralt. With his arms still tight around Ciri, Geralt led her up the hill. Lambert came into view, his arms around Vivi and Tessa, Jaskier wrangling Alvia to keep them from following; Eskel had a steadying hand on Griffin and Clay while Zander corralled the others, some with swords at the ready to support Geralt in fighting whatever wanted to attack their keep.

“Everyone,” Geralt said, his voice low. “This is Ciri, my daughter. Ciri, these are our sons.”

Brilliant eyes flicked across all the new faces until she found someone else she recognized. “Jaskier? Lambert, Eskel.” She said the names softly, like she couldn't believe her eyes either.

Tears flowed freely from Jaskier's eyes. He let go of Alvia and ran to Ciri, pulling her into a bone crunching hug. _Too skinny, needs food_. “Come inside, please. Get cleaned up and have some food. I think we all have a lot to talk about.”

He took Ciri's hand and looped an arm around her back, walking her up to the house. He felt Geralt's rough hand brush against his and Jaskier had to hold back another happy sob. As soon as they were inside the courtyard, Eskel closed the gates and then ran over to them, Lambert right behind. While they didn't hug her yet, they sniffed and searched for injury just like Geralt had, finding nothing but their perfect niece so long gone.

“Ciri, how—?” Eskel's voice cracked around the words.

“Not now.” Geralt hugged her close, feeling her bird thin arms wrap around him, the muscle he remembered more than wasted away. They could ask all the whys and hows later, for the moment, Geralt's family was truly complete. Seven hundred years of grief and longing seemed to fall away all at once. Geralt closed his eyes and inhaled deep, the scents of his bard, his brothers, his sons and his daughter on the air. For the first time, Geralt's life was complete.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> I am [round--robin](https://round--robin.tumblr.com) on tumblr.


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